Uncanonized; a romance of English monachism

•

V ^

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
DAVIS

UNCANONIZED

Homaiue of

BY

MARGARET HORTON POTTER

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.

1900

LIBRARY

.UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
DAVIS

PREFATORY NOTE

IF the character of King John of England, as pre
sented in the following pages, shall be found to differ
somewhat materially from the current and conventional
ideas of him, the reader is requested to attribute the
variation not to mere license of historical romance, but
rather to earnest conviction, resulting from a careful
and minute study of his life and reign on the part of

THE AUTHOR.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY n

II. THE FAREWELL 31

III. SACKCLOTH AND THE ALTAR 53

IV. REGINALD 69

V. JOHN'S MESSENGERS 83

VI. GLASTONBURY 102

VII. TONSURE AND THORN 124

VIII. THE DAWN OF HOPE 144

IX. INTERDICT 159

X. ELEANOR OF BRITTANY 171

XI. DE LA MARCHE 191

XII. THE APOSTASY 204

XIII. AN EXCOMMUNICATED KING 226

XIV. FROM BRISTOL TO GLASTONBURY 241

XV. CHRISTMAS AT WINDSOR 251

XVI. ELEANOR'S ENVOY 274

XVII. ISABELLA OF ANGOULEME 295

XVIII. " AVE ! COLOR VINI CLARI !" 322

XIX. THE MEMORY OF SAVARIC . * 338

XX. JOCELYN OF BATH 356

x Contents

CHAPTER PAGB

XXI. A FULFILLED DESIRE 380

XXII. ROYAL VISITORS AT BRISTOL . . * . . , . 402

XXIII. FOR WOE 419

XXIV. GUESTS AT GLASTONBURY 435

XXV. THE LAST JOURNEY 449

XXVI. THE STORM AT THE ABBEY 471

XXVII. ANGELUS 487

UNCANONIZED

A ROMANCE OF ENGLISH MONACHISM

CHAPTER I

THE ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY

IT was a golden afternoon in the June of the year
1203. The long terraces on the eastern side of
the hill topped by Windsor Castle lay luminously
green in the long light of the declining sun ; while the
last of these, bordering on the forest, was mottled with
the deep, velvet shadows of the ancient oaks near by.
This space was alive with the moving figures of a
company of young men and youths of various ages;
all of them, judging from the richness of their dress,
members of the royal household. They wore tunics
reaching scarcely to the knee, far shorter than those in
vogue for older men ; belts of wrought silver or leather
studded with gold; hose, party-colored or plain; and
long, pointed shoes of cloth, which were by no means
easy to run in. Bareheaded were they all ; and their
locks, not long since carefully combed and curled,
though dishevelled now, hung upon their shoulders.
Two or three only bore traces of wished-for beards;
and, judging by the mellow echoes of their shouts and
laughter, the majority of voices among them was still
unchanged.

The younger members of this group were engaged in
a variety of games : wrestling, racing, balls, archery, and
spaume. The elder ones stood apart in a close group,

ii

12

encircling two of their number who were indulging in a
plebeian bout at quarter-staff. The contest, so closely
matched, was between a couple of straight-limbed young
fellows, whose interest in their sport was evidenced by
the quick and careful skill with which they engaged.
The onlookers showed themselves in small lack of
money, by the readiness with which all indulged in
betting, though no one ventured to offer odds on either
one of the contestants.

The game continued for a long enough time to have
wearied players less athletic ; but, at the end of half an
hour, the victor became very evident to those who had
staked upon his opponent. He was a beautifully built
fellow, not remarkably tall, but perfectly proportioned ;
clad somewhat foppishly in tunic of olive green, of
costly material, white hosen, with belt, pouch, and shoes
heavily jewelled and ornamented. The hat, which lay on
the grass at no great distance, was of white cloth, bear
ing two straight white feathers, tipped with black and
fastened together with a golden pin. His face was well
cut, and its expression determined. Dark hair, some
what shorter than was fashionable, clustered in thick curls
about his head. His movements throughout the match
were rapid and graceful, while the eyes which followed
his opponent's weapon were black and unusually bril
liant. The laughter now and again coming from his
lips as he lost a stroke or was foiled in one, was as clear
and as mellow as the silvery murmur of a forest stream.
A careless, light-hearted, petted, spoiled, and hugely
admired favorite was this Anthony Fitz-Hubert ; upon
whose slender shoulders not a care had sat for three
hours' time in all his pretty life.

The contest was over. Anthony had come out win
ner, as, indeed, he had been quite aware he should ;
and among his companions some handfuls of rude coins
were changing owners. The'victorious young noble at
once held out his hand to the defeated one.

of Canterbury 13

" Truly I should be more contented with my triumph
were it not thy loss, De Neville," he said, pleasantly.

Young De Neville laughed. " I could have born
defeat with so much complaisance at no other hands.
Verily I had not guessed thou hadst so pretty a turn
with a churl's weapon, my Lord Fastidious," he re
turned good-naturedly, and the close group around
them nodded approval.

These courtesies exchanged, Anthony turned to the
others, whose expressions were aimless enough when
the smiles had died from them.

"Come, Anthony, thou 'st amused thyself long enow
at De Neville's expense. Now do thou devise some
sport wherein all may partake," called out one ; and the
chorus of approval which followed was proof enough of
Anthony's undisputed leadership.

" In good sooth," was that youth's lazy reply, " I am
content with the thought of idleness for an hour. Half
that time with staffs and Walter here makes one long
earnestly for a bank of moss and —

" Mademoiselle de Ravaillac with her lute, eh? "

There was a shout of laughter in which Anthony
joined with never a change of color.

" Mademoiselle departs in two days for Winchester
and the Queen," he responded with all the natural and
assumed carelessness that could be summoned to his
aid.

" Ah, that we might all accompany her ! " exclaimed
one.

" Indeed, Henry ! Wouldst smother the poor damsel
in such a press of gallantry ?" queried De Grey.

" Nay, I care nought for the demoiselle, — 't is well
for my happiness that I do not, — but what with John
in Normandy, the Queen at Winchester, and the Arch
bishop ill at Lambeth, old Windsor is as sorry a place
for gayeties as the middle of the New Forest."

"True," assented Anthony; " but, an I weep not at

14

my double desolation, assuredly thou needest not to do
so. Come, let us seek out some spot where the pages
are not forever screaming in our ears, and talk on who
shall run our horses at the next London fair. By
Thomas, Jack Shortleg played me an ill turn in leaving
for York ! What sayest thou to this? "

" Methinks I shall speak for Red Byron," murmured
De Neville to his companion as the little group began to
move slowly toward the edge of the forest.

Presently they were arrested by a shout from behind
them. On looking around they beheld a lackey, in the
dress of the Queen's household, running bareheaded
down the terraces from the castle. He held something
in his hand.

"An it please you, sirs, I would have speech with
my Lord Anthony Fitz-Hubert, an he be among you,"
gasped the man from a distance.

Anthony stepped impatiently from the midst of his
companions. " How now, John, what would you? Me-
seemeth you are ever at me for something."

" Pardon — pardon, my lord, but — "

" In the name of the devil, John, do not ' my lord '
me," exclaimed the young man, angrily. " Well know
you that I am no lord."

"Again pardon, my — "

" ' Lord ! ' " interjected Anthony, mocking his confu
sion. " Come, good villain, 't is a rare flower that you
hold."

"Tis for you, sir; the rose is for you. Mademoi
selle bade me find you and give it, saying, ' He will
understand.' "

The laughter this time was less general. Interest in
the little scene absorbed it. Anthony took the scarlet
flower with good grace, dismissed the boor with a king's
head, and fastened the token in the silver lacing of
his tunic, where it glowed fragrantly upon his breast.
Then, with his cheeks slightly tinged with color, he

of Canterbury ls

turned again to his companions. Chaffing him lightly
on his conquest, and talking together carelessly of
many things, they proceeded to the edge of the little
forest stream where they were accustomed to spend
many an idle hour. All efforts to draw from the
favorite the message delivered by his flower failed.
Mademoiselle possessed an honorable recipient of her
somewhat rashly proffered affection. But the scape
grace Anthony was not so unused to such affairs as to
give this one the attention now demanded from him by
his companions for their masculine matters. Indeed,
he was not so vain as one might imagine, under the
circumstances; for when a life-fabric, from infancy
upward, is woven of adulation, admiration, sunshine,
and entire carelessness, vanity is far less likely to creep
into the woof than should a stripe of happy colors
appear suddenly after long yards of sombre black or
brown.

Anthony Fitz-Hubert's life had been passed at the
courts of kings. He who, next to the King himself,
was the loftiest personage in all England, had no fear
that a son of his would not receive due courtesy and
attention from his liege's vassals, natural child though
he was. Moreover, when a son, endowed with the face,
manner, and mind of Anthony, was placed near the per
son of the King's half-brother, William of Salisbury,
child of Henry Second and the world-famous Rosa
mund of the Tower, a nation's favorite, he would be
little likely to suffer overmuch from shame of birth.
And Anthony but rarely thought upon his unknown
parentage ; of the mother whose name had never been
told to him. The only feeling he had ever shown upon
the matter was his preference for being called by his
given name, and not by that of his father, which, with
the Norman prefix, was a common surname in those
days when our families were being founded ; also, when
etiquette admitted it, he rejected any title of nobility

16

which might be given him by some ignorant or obse
quious person. To-day as he lay supine upon a velvet,
mossy bank (warranted to stain those delicate hose of
his), beneath the faintly stirring branches of a spread
ing oak, and mingling his laughter with that of the
brook at his feet, there was not a thought in the irre
sponsible young head more serious than of games at
quarter-staff, and prospective races, or stolen hours
with a pretty maid who sent him roses as tokens, and
told him far more with her eyes than he had ever dared
ask from her lips.

So engrossed was the little company in its own con
verse that the approach of new-comers among the trees
was unheeded. It was Anthony himself at last who,
chancing to lift his eyes from the water, started suddenly
to his feet, raising the hat from his head as he did
so. The others looked about them, then followed the
youth's example, scrambling hastily from their loung
ing positions. At a few paces distance stood two men :
the one he for whom Windsor Castle was being kept
open in the absence of King and Queen, — William,
Earl of Salisbury; the other a man whom Anthony
recognized as a member of his father's household.

At a slight sign from the fair-faced, grave-eyed Earl,
the young fellow went forward, and, as he went, was
struck as by a blow with a sudden unwarranted appre
hension. The expression of the serving-man was un
readable. There was an instant's pause. The Earl
was palpably reluctant to speak. According to eti
quette Anthony waited attentively in silence, and, as
etiquette did not demand, with a faint tremor of ner
vousness at his heart. At last Salisbury sighed a little,
and, with the same breath, spoke.

"Thy father, Anthony, summons thee to Lambeth.
He would request an immediate departure. Adam,
here, will ride back again with you."

" My father fares worse?" asked the youth, softly.

of Canterbut^ l?

" He is gravely ill, I fear."

" Surely they dread not his — " the word refused to
come. Anthony's head drooped and his face lost its
light.

" The King's own chirurgien and two others skilled
in medicine are with him, together with Geoffrey, Prior
of Canterbury Chapter, and his confessors," answered
the retainer, to whom William had looked for reply.
" His Grace asks constantly for you, and I was bid to
ride from London and fetch you back with me, an it
please you."

" I go at once," returned Anthony, adding hastily,
" I have permission, my lord? "

Salisbury nodded. " Certes. Go get thee into an
older habit. Tell thy father that in another day I will
myself wait on him, and that were it not for the Scot
tish legates who arrive to-night, and De Burgh who
comes in the morning on his way to Normandy, I
would accompany thee now."

Bowing thanks to his master for the kindness, and
bidding Adam be in the castle courtyard in twenty
minutes with fresh horses, Anthony dashed at head
long speed through the trees, over the last terrace,
where the pages were still at their games, and up the
long hill at the summit of which stood the lofty castle,
radiant with the mellow light of the setting sun.

Anthony's companions stared after him as he disap
peared. Never a word of farewell had he said to them.
Something of importance must have happened. The
little group, its pleasure for the afternoon dispelled,
started slowly for the castle ; and as they went the
young men spoke of what had occurred, and advanced
many conjectures as to the reason of their leader's
hurried departure. But none of that gay little com
pany for an instant imagined that they had just seen
Anthony, their Anthony, as he ran upward to the
castle gate, run at the same time out of all their lives,

1 8 cUncanotmeti

and also for all time out of his own. Nor did Anthony
himself dream that. For, as he hastily doffed his rich
costume for a much worn riding-suit of blue, he care
fully loosed Mademoiselle's rose from the lacing of his
doublet, and, as carefully, wrapped it within a damp
damask cloth and laid it on a wooden settle under
neath the window, that it might not fade.

" I shall miss the meeting with thee, Helene," he
thought, smiling absently, " but God grant that I return
hither in happiness ere thou depart for Winchester."

And half his wish he had, indeed. But the other
half—?

In the dying twilight of that summer evening two
horses clattered across the lowered drawbridge and
down the steeply winding road that passed through
the hamlet of Windsor; and then toward London,
which lay farther to the east than nowadays. At a
mad gallop went the pair, and the wretched inhabitants
of the hovels which lined the way for a little, scrambled
hurriedly from their path; then paused to stare long
at the backs of the worshipfuls who were already dis
appearing in the far distance.

Anthony rode in the memory of a dream, a curious
dream, that he had had the night before, and which
now suddenly reappeared upon his memory. It was a
vague, haunting thing; a vision of a great altar, and
many candles, and himself clad in a sackcloth gown,
striving to light them ; failing again and again, yet still
seeing their elusive light in a continual flicker before
his eyes. And as he mused upon this dream, meaning
less as it was, his heart grew heavy in his breast, and
he found no solace in the wild pace of his horse.

It was nine o'clock that evening, and the daylight
had hardly yet throbbed itself out of the darkness,
when the two silent ones drew rein on the farther side
of London, before Lambeth Palace, — on the very spot,
indeed, where stands the Lambeth of to-day.

of Canterbury 19

The Archbishop's son was expected. As he wearily
dismounted from his panting horse, a lackey and two
link-boys with torches hurried from the door to meet
him. Already a groom had taken his steed, and he
followed the pages into the house, thankful that the ride
was over.

" An it please you, sir, my Lord Archbishop would
see you at once, if you will go to him. Refreshment
awaits you in his apartment."

" I follow you," was the answer.

They passed through the great hallway of the palace
and up the stone staircase; then through a maze of
corridors and rush-strewn antechambers, lighted dimly
with stone lamps and torches. As they went Anthony's
mind returned to Windsor and the banquet now ending
there. It seemed a hundred miles away — that other
life of his. And while still he mused he found himself
upon the threshold of his father's stately bed-chamber.

Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury, Primate
and Chief Justiciary of England, he who ruled England
in the King's absence, and, some said, in the King's
presence likewise, was, as every man in Lambeth Palace
believed, mortally ill. England was in ignorance of his
state as yet, for the sickness was of short standing ; but
the nearest companions and servants of my lord had
been summoned from his various palaces and churches ;
the Prior of Canterbury Chapter had come, and the
Bishops of London and Rochester, together with Gilbert
Glanville and Robert of Auxerre, his confessors, were at
his side. In death, as in life, my lord was to be well at
tended and assisted on his important way. With regard
to the archiepiscopal conscience the last step had been
taken : Hubert's son, the single evidence of his single
wrong-doing, had been summoned to his lingering
presence.

It was evident that Anthony's coming had been
looked for. As soon as he entered the room all those

20 2Jncanoni?eD

seated within it rose with one accord, more out of a
wish to show respect to the dying man than to the son,
who, for them, had neither rank nor position. Anthony
looked not to the right or left, but advanced quietly
to the bedside and bent over the passive form which
lay thereon.

" My father," he said gently.

Hubert Walter's eyes opened. In those gray orbs,
fire lingered yet; and when he spoke, weak though his
voice was, the ring of command still dominated its
expression.

11 Thou 'rt in good season, boy. I thank thee for thy
quick obedience to my wishes."

" I could scarce do other than the duty which was
also my wish," was the response, spoken in a tone
unwontedly low, for Anthony was noting each changed
point of his father's weakened face and frame.

" 'T is well. Refreshment will be brought thee now.
After that we will speak together. I — cannot — as —
yet." The last sentence came brokenly, and with a
kind of shudder. The sight of his son had unnerved
the Archbishop.

One of the physicians hurried to the bedside with
cordial, which was hastily administered. Then Anthony,
seeing his father sink back again into torpor, left his
side and went to the table, which had already been
spread with white bread, capon, and wine. Of this meal
the young man was indeed in great need, being thor
oughly exhausted from his long ride and the various
emotions of the afternoon and evening.

In a corner of the room Geoffrey of Canterbury, the
confessors, and the bishops sat whispering together.
In the opposite corner the three doctors of medicine
consulted lugubriously and with much comfort. While
upon the heavily canopied bedstead between these two
parties of directors, unheeding all the talk and the
flickering of the dim light, lay the Archbishop, pallid

of Canterbury 21

and motionless, his eyes closed, and one hand clenched
fast beneath the coarse coverlet. As, mechanically,
Anthony ate and drank, he watched this scene. In his
mind there was no definite thought or feeling. Only
all about him seemed to hang a haze of apprehension,
vague and elusive as the torchlight. Something was to
happen, he felt; something strange, unguessed, and
dreadful. This unwarranted dread grew greater, until
it became impossible for him to eat. He finished his
wine, then sat quite still for a moment on his wooden
stool, his head bent. The bishops thought him pro
nouncing a grace. In reality his thoughts, for an
instant, had fled this scene and escaped to the memory
of what he had left that day, — the daylight, the sun,
the rose, the forest, the banquet-hall of Windsor, and
the little balcony whereon he had been wont to whisper
delicate nothings in the moonlight into the pretty ear of
Mademoiselle. His eyes opened again upon this pres
ent scene. Then, resolutely, he rose, and crossed to
the bed whereon the sick man lay.

The Archbishop felt his presence and looked up.
"Thou art ready?" he asked, in a whisper that was
hoarse.

Anthony bent his head, once.

Hubert Walter raised his thin white hand : " Friends,
I would have speech with my son, alone. Will you be
pleased to retire to the antechamber, and see that we
are not disturbed. Anthony shall recall you when we
have finished our converse, or should I have need of
assistance in your absence."

There was not a hint of weakness in this speech.

Rising obediently, the priests and doctors filed slowly
out of the room. Rapidity of movement was not be
coming, and in their secret hearts they strongly wished
to hear the interview which was about to take place.
But, neither by word nor look, dared they betray curi
osity even among themselves ; for Hubert Walter, what-

22 2Jncanoni?eH

ever else he had done in life, had trained his dependents
into excellent manners. And they were never slow to
learn from him, after a first lesson, that he was a man
at times to be greatly dreaded.

A man to be dreaded ? Yes. Hubert Walter him
self was well aware of that. A proud man, an imperi
ous, indomitable, and boundlessly ambitious man he
had ever been. From low estate had he risen, neither
rapidly nor slowly, with absolute assurance. In the
early years of the reign of the first Richard he had
become Archbishop of Canterbury; King of clerical
England. But that was no longer the summit of his
ambition. Mile by mile, throughout that reign, he had
approached his final goal. He had reached it now.
Over the bitterest opposition to his civil appointments,
he had ridden rough-shod. He, of the Roman Catho
lic Church, not of the Church Militant, as Chief Justici
ary of the realm had come to pronounce death-sentence
over men, — a direct abrogation of his clerical vows ; and
yet, throughout the Christian world, had at last stilled
every murmur of reproach from prostrate envy. Baron,
King and nation he had overruled. Had he found it
necessary, the Pope himself would have been defied.
And now, as he lay upon his accepted death-bed,
there was naught but sorrow in the hearts of those
who knew of his approaching end. A great man was
Father Hubert Walter.

A great man — and yet, alas, alas for the greatest of us,
a blot was on his scutcheon. The blot was from the hand
of woman, and Anthony was the blot. Anthony called
up constantly to his father's mind the memory of the pe
riod of his sin against the Church. Yet, by his father,
Anthony had always been treated with unswerving kind
ness, and rigid recognition of their relationship. Hu
bert's mind and his position were alike powerful enough
for that. None the less the proud old man had suffered,
and dreaded as much as he had endured, for the mem-

of Canterbury 23

ory of that long-past folly. The fears of his creed were
thoroughly instilled into his brain and heart. He be
lieved absolutely in everlasting damnation ; and his
God was far more terrible than righteous ; though that
fact Hubert, together with scholastic Christendom, failed
entirely to recognize.

Through the long years before and since his
earthly ambitions were realized, the Archbishop had
brooded over this other thing: the sin which, com
mitted in the ardor of his youth, might now have the
far-reaching power to blast the final triumph which men
lived for in those days ; which might drag him from a
seat among the mighty in heaven, and fling him into
the lake of everlasting fire far below. A childish fear,
one of the thirteenth century, but none the less terrible
to him who believed in it. And through much suf
fering and thought the Archbishop had devised for
himself a way of escape, one which, according to all
legitimate tradition, would prove wholly and worthily
efficacious. That this escape would be thoroughly cow
ardly did not for a moment enter into his consideration.
Some one must merely bear the burden of a few short
years of earthly discomfort. Obviously that would be
impossible for a dying man. Equally obvious was the
fact that there was only one person in existence upon
whom Hubert Walter had any life-claim. That person
was his son ; and his son, according to Scriptural per
mission, might be requested to take the consequences
of his father's sin.

Anthony stood by his father's bedside, glad that a
decisive moment had come at last, trusting that his fore
boding was to be dispelled. The Archbishop raised
himself slightly on his pillow, and, breathing a little
heavily from the effort, lay looking at the young man
with dim eyes and parted lips, in silence. Finally, lift
ing his hand, the old man pointed to a wooden stool in
the room.

24

" Bring it hither and sit ye down, my son. So may
we talk more at ease."

Anthony obeyed, seating himself and fixing his eyes
upon his father's face. There was another pause. Hu
bert Walter found it difficult to begin. Finally, with a
tremble in his tone, he lifted his voice and spoke, as if
by rote, but with desperate intensity in his manner.

" Anthony, you are my natural son. You know that."

Anthony nodded. He had expected such a prelimi
nary.

" Thou knowest too that the vows of a Catholic priest
are celibate. Therefore I sinned, grievously."

Anthony nodded again. He had not expected self-
humiliation from the Archbishop.

" You are my child, the evidence of my single swerv
ing from that narrow road which, since my youth, I
have so earnestly walked in. For endless years have I
been doing penance for that wrong. Long ago it was
confessed. To me it hath never been absolved."

He paused and looked searchingly into Anthony's
face. It bore no expression save that of earnest atten
tion. Taking breath again Hubert continued. " Mine
hours now are numbered. Upon the bed which I
have made, I lie. In another world I shall be judged.
Oh, Anthony I I fear ! — Hast ever thought on
death?"

" Nay," was the answer, given in an absent tone.

" Nor did I, when I was of thy years, — when I
sinned," returned the old man, dropping back again to
the painful theme. " But I think now — I think now —
for I needs must. When at last one is brought face to face
with the Creator, and knoweth that there is naught that
he may hide from the omniscient One, then indeed doth
a man think — and tremble. Though oft have I been
washed free of my sins by some brother of the Church,
yet now I am become sore afraid lest the taint be not
entirely removed. From afar down the gallery of years

Clje 3rcpij3^op of Canterbury 25

my misdoing cries out. With prayers of anguish have
I answered the echo, and peace for a day hath been
given me. But ever and again the remorse returns.
Purgatory opens at last, and hell yawns below. But
heaven — heaven is barred — to me, Hubert Walter,
Archbishop of Canterbury, while the world, heeding
not my sin, looketh upon me as beyond mortal
reproach ! "

Again the Archbishop paused, his strength failing
rapidly. With a strong final effort, however, he con
centrated a glance of powerful intensity upon his son's
thoughtful face. Anthony returned the look with one
of earnest questioning.

"Was the sin so great, father?" he asked. " Others
have committed more and worse than thine, yet hoped
for heaven in the end. Surely 't is said that the
Church Fathers, Saint Thomas himself, were in no
wise free from reproach in such matters."

Hubert sighed. He had made his decision, passed
these arguments from himself, long ago. Now no word
from any one could mitigate his judgment of himself. He
was annoyed that the young man should for a moment
dispute its reason. " Look you, Anthony, 't is now
no Becket speaking with thee ; but I, I, Hubert Walter,
thy father, face to face with the hereafter, fear for
the repose of my soul ! Becket is gone. He was no
charge of mine. On earth he is a saint — in heaven
he may not be at all. What matters that to me? 'Tis
I that die ! "

That was it. Therein lay all. It came over Anthony
in a sudden flood of understanding, — all this self. He
saw his father as we do not see ourselves. He saw the
self and the selfishness. Hubert Walter was himself.
His individuality was complete. No keeper of his
brother, but only master of his own welfare was he.
To himself he was all. Flesh of his flesh and blood of
his blood, distinguished by another shape, another

26

sensibility, were nothing to him, except for what he
might demand of them for himself. All for him was
reality. For another — it was but imagination. Fear
had come home to him now. Hitherto he had seen
suffering and fear, and had condoned, and tried to
comfort with words — had this Hubert Walter. Now
was he afraid, and what were words to him? In a
second Anthony had perceived all this. Weighted with
thought he rose and went to his father's side.

" What wouldst have me do ? " and his voice was low,
and soft with great pity for the human frailty which he
had seen so suddenly revealed.

A gleam passed over the old man's face. At last
help had come to him. Now, how to put the question ?
All hung upon that — all, his eternal happiness or dam
nation. Should it be at once, brusquely, with noth
ing to soften its harshness? A sudden rush of pain
decided the matter.

"What shouldst thou do? This, Anthony : During
the few years that remain to thee shalt thou save my soul
and thine own. That life in which I failed, shalt thou
live. Put away ambition. Enter among the lowly of
earth, that a higher throne in heaven may await thee.
Take the vows. Become a monk, content to live alone,
apart from men, with brethren of thine order, and with
tomes, and prayers, and God ; leave far behind the use
less glory of this life, and look alone to Heaven for thy
hope, and for my love."

It was said. Hubert drew a slow and painful breath,
that was scarcely lower in sound than three words —
spoken as if by the voice of a dying man, or of a
spectre — coming from close beside his bed. They
were an echo.

'"Become — a— monk!"'

Hubert did not stir. He lay with his eyes fixed
upon his son in a dim look of imperious weakness and
pleading, that might now do far more than words in

of Canterbury 27

helping to prepare a mind for such a thought. He
could not dream the true effect of his long-planned
proposition upon one to whom its meaning was so
new.

Slowly and unconsciously Anthony moved backward
from the bed. His eyes wandered aimlessly about the
room. His ideas refused to concentrate themselves
upon anything. Presently he burst into a laugh, — a
laugh so musical that it might have been called a
woman's, save that in it there was no thought of
mirth.

" T is an idea, surely ! — A monk ! "

" I jested not, Anthony," said the old man, anxiously.

Anthony's face twitched. The laughter rose again in
his throat, but his eyes were terrible. " Monkery ! How
am I fitted for it? Thou knowest what my life at court
hath been? Their duties, their thoughts, their ways,
— what know I of them ! I should be given time — to
think."

" There is no time ; " and in Hubert's voice sounded
despair now.

Anthony started. A quick vibration shot to his
heart. " You mean that I should decide — here —
now?"

" Here, and now," repeated the inexorable low voice.

" Then NO ! Ten thousand times NO ! I am no
priest, nor fit for one. I am of the court, a servant
of the King, of the household of the King's brother.
I will be no monk."

A terrible expression came into the eyes of the
Archbishop of Canterbury, — a look such as Hubert's
god of Judgment might have worn. It passed again,
but its trace remained. When he spoke his voice was
weak and very gentle, but there was a note in it of
something else.

"Wait, Anthony! Thus superficially you cannot
decide. Think you that I knew not all that you have

28

spoken of when I asked this thing from you? You
are no courtier, no servant of the King. Neither are
you, as I have seen,, a servant of your God. Less than
the least of men are you. You are a bastard. Had
you a soul at all, it were impure. Some say that in
you there is no soul. I know not how that is, but in
the words of holy Scripture I tell you this, — see that
you heed it : ' The sins of the fathers are visited upon
the children.' I am your father, and my sin is yours.
I and you also are impure in the sight of the Almighty
Father. Now have I opened before you a way of
salvation for us both. A glorious way it is, for by it
my soul shall belong to you. In the sight of the chil
dren of men you are as nothing. To me you are a
son. Here on my death-bed I demand — see, I plead
no more — I command you to leave the world, that you
may open the way to another and an eternal world to
both of us, — both of us, Anthony, — to you and
to me."

There was a long silence, empty for one of them,
suffocating for the other. Then Anthony lifted his
head. " She -who was my mother," he asked bitterly,
— "hast saved her soul? Or is that also left to my
care? "

" Long since she died. For seven hundred days I
said mass for the repose of her soul; I was daily
scourged; and in all that time no morsel of meat
passed my lips."

Anthony was silent again. Out of the mist before
him rose his life. " ' The sins of the fathers ' " he
repeated hoarsely to himself.

" What say you ? " asked the father, drearily.

"What is needed to make me into a monk? What
monastery would receive me?" questioned a new voice
that came from Anthony's lips.

The Archbishop breathed quickly. " All those mat
ters I have arranged. From his Holiness himself have

of Canterbury 29

I letters sanctioning the matter and giving thee the right
of friar's orders that shall free thee at times from the
weariness of the cloister. In difficulty or trouble thou
mayest appeal to him. These privileges are rare and
great."

" Where should I go ? " repeated the monotonous
voice.

" To Canterbury. Geoffrey will accompany thee. In
the great monastery of Augustine there, thou wilt serve
six months' novitiate. Thy time is specially shortened.
At the end of that, when thou hast ta'en the vows, a
place will be made for thee in the Canterbury Chapter
itself. That is the most powerful convent in all Eng
land. Thou wouldst serve only at the masses in the
great cathedral, and be given many hours for solitary
study and prayer. The chapter hath greater honor and
privilege than any other in the kingdom. Wouldst be
satisfied?"

« Satisfied!"

" Anthony, my strength fails. Thy word — to God ! "

Anthony Fitz-Hubert stood. His arms were folded
tightly across his breast. His damp hair clung closely
to his head. His dark eyes were dull and unseeing. A
drop rolled from his forehead down his cheek. Like a
breath of the evening wind, his youth had passed from
him. He spoke, but his tone and his face were alike
without expression. His gaze was not upon his father's
face, but on the great void where his happiness had
been. His words were clear; his father, straining to
catch them, drank them into his soul.

" In the sight of God I promise you — to become —
a monk."

The Archbishop's face relaxed. He sighed. His
failing strength had apparently returned to him. " Thou
mayest call Geoffrey," he said gently, "but kneel first
to receive my blessing. Ah, my son ! My beloved
son ! How do I glory in thee ! "

30 ajncanoni?eti

Anthony stumbled to the bedside and forced himself
to kneel. He shivered as the hot hand fell upon his
hair. He kept himself from crying aloud by main
strength. Then the phrases of the benediction fell
upon his ears : " Peace be with thee, now, henceforth,
and forever, Anthony ! "

CHAPTER II

THE FAREWELL

IN the antechamber of the Archbishop's bedroom,
during the talk between Hubert and his son, the
little group of doctors and priests had waited impa
tiently for the termination of that interview. Gilbert de
Glanville sat alone on a settle in a corner, his tonsured
head bent so that his face was unreadable, his fingers
playing nervously with the cloth of his black robe. The
Bishop of London was expounding some dogma of Paris
to his comrades, who obviously paid little heed to his
words. Geoffrey of Canterbury sat by the other con
fessor, but neither of them spoke. They, too, were lis
tening for the sound of a footstep in the corridor. The
doctors, more at ease, sat murmuring professionally
among themselves, careless of the unrest among their
colleagues of the soul. None in the room but Gilbert
knew what it was that Hubert Walter was saying to his
son ; but all who were aware of that sonship could at
least imagine many things.

The minutes dragged. The floating wicks in the
small stone lamps built upon the wall wavered and
flickered unpleasantly, while the uneven light from the
cresset lantern hung in the middle of the apartment cast
distorted shadows over the floor and ceiling. To all
the attendants the wait was tedious ; to Gilbert Glan
ville it was interminable. The confessor was uneasy.
" Verily, my lord findeth his task no simple one. Me-
thought it had been so. 'Twere better an he had left
it to one of us — to me," he thought, and thought
again.

32

Nevertheless, when their waiting was ended and the
leather hanging before the door raised by a white hand,
all in the room were startled. It was a strange appari
tion. For a moment each was aware of a slender figure,
which seemed to sway even as it grasped the curtain ; of
a ghastly face framed in rough black hair ; of a voice
whose sound was only a hoarse whisper, —

" Gilbert de Glanville, — my father — would have
speech with you."

Gilbert rose quickly. At the same moment the chief
chirurgien started up. It was the confessor who waved
him aside. " My lord needs thee not yet," he said ;
then followed Anthony from the room.

They walked together down the short passage-way.
At the door to the larger room which they were about
to enter, Gilbert paused for an instant and laid a finger
on the young man's sleeve; "Thou hast consented?"
he whispered.

Anthony's lips framed an answer that was barely
audible, but which Gilbert caught at once. A look
of admiration crept over the confessor's face, and a
gleam of pity flickered from his eyes. The admiration
was for Hubert Walter's power, which, it seemed, death
could not diminish. The pity was for the son.

On entering the bedroom, Gilbert went at once to the
Archbishop's side. The sick man's cheeks were slightly
flushed, his eyes were brilliant, and his voice weaker than
it had been.

" Anthony hath granted my last wish," said his Grace,
looking sharply into his confessor's face. " Go now,
Gilbert, to the cabinet in the corner yonder, and in it
shaltthou find the papers that are needed for Anthony's
going. To one, the oath, Anthony shall put his name.
The second is from mine own hand to the monastery
and chapter; thou wilt see that its command is obeyed,
father. The third is from the Pope to me, granting
my behest, absolving me from guilt on the condition

faretoell 33

that Anthony take the vows, and giving him special
order of friar-confessor, together with privilege of ap
peal to his Holiness in difficulty or dispute. That
missive, Anthony, is thine. Treasure it well, for it will
be the greatest possession of thy monkhood. Now shalt
thou sign the pledge to me and to God. Canst write
thy name, dear son?"

" A courtier is no scribe. No."

Hubert took no note of the dark face and the churl
ish tone. It was easy to forgive these things now.
" Gilbert shall write it, then, and thou must make thy
mark. Then we will determine about thy going."

" My going ! Surely I shall not go yet ! I will wait
— until — "

" Until my death?" finished the old man, looking
at him piercingly. " Thou shalt go before then. I
would thou wert within the convent at this moment.
Remember, Anthony, thy prayers are needed."

The young man struggled to suppress a sound that
rose to his lips. It was something like an explosive
laugh. His nerves were giving way. Further resist
ance upon petty points appeared impossible to him.
He was at the greatest disadvantage, worn mentally and
physically, and left to oppose helplessness to pitiless
determination. Argument he felt to be useless. Gilbert
de Glanville perceived his condition, and the advantage
that was theirs. He addressed a few low-toned words
to the Archbishop.

" Yes, yes," returned Hubert, somewhat impatiently.
"Thou hadst better go now to thy rest, Anthony.
Gilbert and I will arrange these matters. Leave them
to us in faith. On the morrow thou must ride again,
and thou art weary enow. Call the lackey, Gilbert. Go,
then ; and peace be with thee, son."

Anthony turned silently to leave the room, defeated,
as he knew, yet caring little just then for anything.
Presently something, a quiver of feeling, stopped him.

3

34

He hesitated for a moment, then went to the bedside
again, bending over it and gazing sadly into his father's
face.

"What is it, boy?" and there was a tremble in the
high, old voice.

" I shall see thee again, in the morning? " asked the
son, gently.

" Dei gratia, Antoni. Nunc vale."

" Vale," he murmured in reply, and then, with sudden
determination, swiftly crossed the room and was gone.

De Glanville and the Archbishop, left alone together,
did not speak for some moments. When the silence
was at length broken, it was in a way which showed
the close intimacy between these two men.

" Thou hadst some little struggle with him, my
lord?"

" Nay, not so much, Gilbert — not so much as I had
apprehended. Thou knowest he is of my blood. Ah,
Gilbert ! At times my heart reproaches me for what I
have done ! "

" That is but weakness. Assuredly in giving a world
ling to the arms of the holy Church thou hast done
no wrong. He will forget, soon, that other life which
would have condemned him to tortures eternal ; and
will gladly seek what is needed for the repose of his
soul — and of thine own."

" God grant it. And now as to his departure." The
Archbishop lifted himself upon his pillow and glanced
significantly at the confessor. Then he proceeded, with
a voice lowered unnecessarily, since he could not hide
his thought from God : " He must depart hence for
Canterbury on the morrow. Dost understand?"

" You mean, my lord," said De Glanville, with an
inward smile, but great outward respect, — " you mean
that Heaven hath not called you yet?"

" Ay," answered Hubert, with a sigh that was heart
felt. "The malignance of the attack is. passed. I shall

tfaretoell 35

recover. But for how long? Thou knowest how they
do continually recur. Nay, Gilbert, the grave yawns
for me. I am not so unkind as thou thinkest. Death
smiles not far away, though for the nonce I have
banished him. Were it otherwise - He did not finish
his thought in words, but the meaning was not difficult
to perceive.

Gilbert bowed passively. The subject was closed.
They turned to the matters of Anthony's going, and
his other life.

The Archbishop's son, meanwhile, lay in the stately
room prepared for him. His brain rebelled against
further labor, and his head had scarcely found its
welcome resting-place before his darkly fringed eyelids
had closed heavily, and he slept. Through the remain
ing hours of the night he lay wrapped in a slumber
resembling the death which had left his father's bed.
The beams of the morning sun, finally creeping up
his pillow, held in them a drowsy dream of Made
moiselle and of her rose. The dream brought no waken
ing, and it was some hours past his usual time for rising
when a hand, hot and thin, was laid upon his white one,
which he had thrown above his head in his light sleep.
Instantly he started up, ready to resent the morning
intrusion of some Windsor coxcomb. Before him, in
this room at silent Lambeth, stood the shrunken form
of Gilbert de Glanville, in his black priest's-robe.

" My father ! " he asked quickly, memory still latent
within him.

" My Lord Archbishop still breathes, sends his bless
ing, and gives you God-speed upon your journey,"
responded the priest, examining him narrowly.

Anthony sank back upon the bed, overwhelmed.
The watcher saw all the young life leave him, and the
face grow old. Light and color departed from his eyes
and lips, and his muscles seemed powerless to hold
him longer upright. After a pause which the priest

36

dared not break for sudden feeling, the lifeless voice
of the young man was raised in a dreary monotone of
questioning, —

" What is the hour? Whither do I ride? To Canter
bury? Is it there I am to go? — now?"

" The dial pointeth to something near noon. Thou
wilt return to-day to Windsor, that thou mayest bid
farewell to thy former master and comrades. On the
morrow, together, we will proceed to Canterbury, where
the letter from thy father will insure thee willing
welcome."

"Thou to go with me? T is strange! Why not
Geoffrey of the chapter? Assuredly my father will
need his confessor — "

" The Bishop of London taketh upon himself my
office, and thou knowest Robert likewise is here.
Geoffrey remains for many reasons. He is no friend of
the Abbot of St. Augustine's. Now an thou 'It break
thy fast, it were better than to talk longer on these idle
things. T will be long after noon ere thou 'It get to
Windsor, meseemeth, as it is."

Anthony ate but slightly of the generous meal pro
vided for him. Here there were no preparations to be
made for his longer journey, and it was but little past
the hour of one when he was admitted to the archiepis-
copal room to bid a final farewell. The permission was
a surprise to iiim. From De Glanville's words he had
inferred that his father did not intend to see him again.
Indeed, that idea was the one which the priest himself
had striven to impart. The confessor had also opposed,
so far as he dared, Hubert's desire for a last interview.
But the father was as determined upon this point as he
had been upon that other wish which De Glanville
shared. And in this as in the other he had his way,
and saw his son. As it chanced, the happening was
fortunate for Hubert's cause. If Anthony had had the
faintest doubt as to the real severity of the Archbishop's

fatetoell 37

illness, that doubt was dispelled now. He was shocked
at the appearance of his father, exposed in all his worn
pallor, with the traces of cruel pain plainly apparent
in the pitiless glare of the noonday sun. Every mark
of his illness was presented to the eyes of the young
man, who regarded the feeble body lying before him
with something like horror.

The good-bye was not prolonged. Neither father
nor son was in a mood where many words were bear
able. But the parting on Hubert's side was ineffably
sad. One knowing nothing would have said that he
was sure of death. 'That of the younger man could be
only reverential and low-voiced. Anthony was unable to
do more. The bitterness was too sudden and too deep.

Mounted again upon his eager steed, knowing that
there lay before him, to the west, some twenty-five
miles of solitude, the heavy weight upon Anthony's
breast lightened a little. The oppression of the stone
walls of Lambeth Palace was gone. For a moment
he was to be alone — and free. But as he rode, his
instant of relief went from him again. He seemed to
himself to be passing through a mighty sea of desolate
thought, whose great waves swept over him in resistless
power, leaving him exhausted when they had passed.
Realization of his position was taking him by storm.
By sharp spasms the picture of his future life and its
loneliness rose before his eyes, then departed as sud
denly as it had come, leaving behind it a blank void.
The sensation was almost indescribable. In the periods
of mental numbness he wondered indistinctly if his
brain had been turned by the sudden prospect of his
life's change. Only he could understand how, hitherto,
he had loved life. Now, for the first time, discord had
come, and the endless continuance of its echoes was to
make his life terrible. Created eminently for the diffi
cult position of leader in a court life, social and tactful
to a degree, young, beautiful of face and form, fascinat-

38 2Jncanoni?eD

ing, and easily fascinated by beauty and delicacy, — all
environment suited to these qualities of nature was sud
denly to be snatched away. He was standing utterly alone
in a new land, a new atmosphere, in which, at great dis
tance, dim, unknown figures were eying him ; invisible,
but still terrible, walls waiting to enclose him and his
youth as in a tomb. His world was gone. The new
one was filled with shadows. Then why think until the
light had broken upon this horizon, until the worst and
the best of all this was made known to him? At least
in obeying the command of his father, he had done
what all men would call right, and more than right.

So the miles before him lessened until, by the time
the lowering sun had begun to shine unpleasantly into
his eyes, the heights of Windsor lay before him, and he
urged his foaming horse into a faster gallop up the
steep road, among the huts of those whom he had
thought so miserable not long ago.

It was the hour when the castle courtyard was de
serted. Only two henchmen guarded the lowered
drawbridge, and the old porter drowsed at the door of
his lodge. Throwing his bridle over the arm of an atten
dant man-at-arms, Anthony dismounted from his horse
and entered the castle, undecided as to what he should
do first. Seeing a lackey, whose face was familiar,
lounging in the hallway, he called out to him, —

"Walter, is my Lord de Burgh in his apartments?"

"An hour ago he returned from the chase, and is now
at rest, Sir Anthony."

" Go ask him if he will receive me."

The man bowed and ran up the worn stone stairs,
leaving Anthony to wait in the room below. Presently
he returned.

"The serving-man in my lord's antechamber hath
orders that my lord is to be disturbed by none, sith he
is preparing some matters concerning his departure for
Normandy on the morrow.'*

39

" So be it. I will see him later in the evening." And
Anthony went slowly toward the stairs. He shrank
unspeakably from explanations and scenes of farewell.
At the idea of pity and amazement, he fairly shuddered.
Perhaps there might be even sneers, for young folk are
not often kind to their own companions. And by the
time that he reached his own room he was debating the
possibility of departing as if for a journey, with explana
tion given only to his liege lord, the Earl of Salisbury.

Upon the wooden settle in his chamber, with the sun
light pouring down from the window above it, lay the
rose, wrapped in its now dry cloth. Anthony went to
it slowly, and picked it up. Its scarlet glory was gone ;
the petals were purple and old. And the rose and his
life were alike. A week ago he would have sung a
madrigal upon the theme, to be repeated to its lady
and his. Now he was conscious only of a sickening,
uncouth bitterness of spirit, as he flung the flower far
from him, and turned away again, to look through his
many possessions, and to pack what little might be
taken with him on the morrow; and the first necessity
which came to his hand was a small, sharp, jewel-hilted
dagger.

The June sun reached the tree-tops which bounded
the western horizon with their delicate, plumy green.
Throughout the castle there was a hum and murmur
of life. Its occupants had returned from the day's
pleasures and sports to robe themselves for the even
ing meal, less formal yet far more sumptuous than the
ten o'clock dinner. Anthony listened to the dim mur
mur of familiar voices and the echoes of laughter that
reached his ears, as he stood contemplating himself
undecidedly in a steel mirror that hung from an iron
hook upon his bedroom wall. Of what use to deck
himself in fine raiment for the last time that his body
should ever bear it? Sackcloth was henceforth to be
his garment. What matter if he went unkempt for the

40

last evening in the home he loved? But the thought
of the part he wished to play came back to him. He
could not bear that his companions should know his
ruin. Despair is concealed for an hour more easily than
unrest. And so Anthony sighed a long, heavy sigh, and
went to the great carven chest in which he kept his
clothes. Fitz-Hubert was of sufficient importance to
have a special lackey and serving-man of his own.
This person, who ran his errands, served him at meals,
and kept his horse, also attended him as valet and
barber at his toilet. It is not difficult to perceive that
the fellow's position was no sinecure. Anthony called
him now.

" Array me splendidly to-night, Morris. Mademoi
selle de Ravaillac awaits me," he remarked.

Morris was somewhat surprised at the unusual mention
of personal matters, and also at Anthony's command to
be much dressed on an evening which promised to be
dull at the castle.

" The Scottish legates have departed, sir," he ven
tured.

"What! So soon? Truly the Earl must have de
ported himself after the manner of John ! Hie ye now
and find the fastening buckle for this garment."

Perceiving that his master was in earnest concerning
his dress, Morris said no more, but went quickly to work,
for their time was short.

The banqueting hall of ancient Windsor was an enor
mous place. Situated in the south wing of the castle,
there was space enough on the story over it for an entire
suite of royal apartments ; and room enough in the
baserrtent below for a wine-vault, the fame of whose
size had spread over all England. Space only half as
large was needed for the entire culinary department
from kitchen to still room, even including those rude
closets where chef and scullion were wont to sleep side
by side. The banquet-hall was, like the rest of the

faretoelt 41

castle, all of stone. The floor was bare, damp, and gray,
for rushes were not used on the flags of that immense
room ; but the walls were hung round with tapestry
from Flanders, — priceless then as now, — representing
scenes from the First Crusade.

Before six o'clock on this June evening a small army
of lackeys and pages had been at work in this room, pre
paring it and its table for the serving of the household
that now occupied the castle. One great board stretched
down through the middle of the room, containing places
enough for every occupant of the building. Upon a
raised dais at the farther end was a small round table
with six seats for the King, the Queen, my lord of
Salisbury, and any chance visitors of royal blood of
consequence enough to be seated there. It made no
difference that King John and his Queen were rarely at
Windsor for more than one month out of twelve, and
then never together. Their table always awaited them
there. As for the Earl, he refused to dine in lonely
state, but occupied the first seat at the table of his own
household, with Hubert de Burgh upon his right, and
Peter Fitz-Geoffrey at his left hand — should either of
them chance to be present.

At seven in the evening one of the lackeys, carrying
an iron gong, and one of the pages, with the beating-
stick in his hand, ascended to the upper corridors of the
castle. Through these they passed, making a racket
that should have deafened both of them long ago. And
presently when the twain were gone, the doors along
those halls began one by one to open, and a throng of
quaintly garbed people to pass out and down the great
and little staircases and into' the smokily lighted ban
quet-room, whence it was not so easy to conjecture
how all would depart.

Now when my lord of Salisbury presided over the
castle household he was most apt to throw usual forms
into the greatest confusion by his entire disregard of

42 (3ncanoni?et)

the etiquette for meals. To-night the first-comers, a
company of men-at-arms, henchmen, and the array of
visiting mendicants and friars, had scarcely grouped
themselves, standing, about the board, below the salt,
when his Grace, arm-in-arm with his friend De Burgh,
and accompanied by two enormous boar-hounds, entered
the room, talking pleasantly with his companion, who
was smiling beneath his beard at William's easy uncon-
ventionality. These two seated themselves at the table
at once, watching the others as they entered, the Earl
nonchalantly addressing any one who chanced to catch
his eye. Peter Fitz-Geoffrey and most of the great
nobles of the realm were absent, either with the King
or upon their own estates.

The coxcombs and ladies, who had entered the door
way laughing and talking among themselves, grew silent
suddenly, as each in turn beheld the liege lord already
seated. One damsel, — woman or girl, for she was both,
— pretty of feature and beautifully dressed, her golden
hair escaping from its coif and falling here and there
in curls upon the flowing garments of sea-green damask,
the color in her cheeks not much less glowing than that
of the scarlet rose at her breast, entered the room alone.
As she advanced to her place, after her courtesy to the
Earl, her blue eyes wandered searchingly among the
throng of gallants. Apparently she did not find among
them the one she sought.

"Mademoiselle de Ravaillac looks for her errant
knight," whispered Salisbury laughingly to his neighbor.

"Hath not Anthony returned?" queried De Burgh.

" Meseemeth not. In sooth I had scarce looked for
him to-day."

" Hast heard from Lambeth? Is the Archbishop
worse?"

" I trust not. We have had no news as yet. Thou
knowest the cause of Hubert's message to his son, De
Burgh?"

tfaretuell 43

"My realm is among the laity, — my affairs the
King's," was the courtier's evasive answer. And Salis
bury cleared his throat and smiled slightly as he ended
the conversation by the remark, —

" Here are the priests."

"And there, yonder, at the door, — " put in De
Burgh.

" Is Anthony ! " finished Salisbury, in astonishment.

De Burgh's eyes flew to the face of Mademoiselle de
Ravaillac, whose blue orbs were fastened intently upon
the wooden trencher of the monk opposite to her.
But there was a sudden round of forbidden whispering
among Anthony's intimates, and significant looks passed
between many at the expense of the fair-haired demoi
selle ; for Fitz-Hubert's entrance had been indeed de
signed to create a commotion among the members of
this important household.

Conscious to the full of all the eyes that were turned
upon him, the young man paused for a moment in the
doorway. Then he advanced slowly toward the seat of
William of Salisbury, a brilliant smile drawing his lips,
a feeling akin to death gathering in his heart. The
grace remained still unspoken while the monks, envious
like many others, turned upon their stools to look upon
him. He was clad in a tunic reaching to his heels,
made of white cloth heavily embroidered in gold,
slashed up the sides far enough to reveal the dusky
sheen of his black, broidered hose. His belt was of
black and gold, and the dagger in it, of steel, was hilted
with gleaming jewels. His sleeves were of plain white
damask, cuffed with black. His black hair, freshly
curled, framed the face, that was as white as his dress ;
and the brilliance of his deepset eyes matched that of
the gems at his belt. The finishing touch to the young
man's curious costume, and the one which gave greatest
significance to his appearance, was that which appeared
to link him in some way to the prettiest woman in the

44 2Jncanoni?cti

room. It was the rose which cast a red shadow upon
the gleaming purity of his tunic, — a flower for whose
perfection Morris had hunted during a long half-hour in
the royal gardens, and which had made his master thus
tardy in arriving at his post.

Under the glances from myriad eyes, Anthony, seem
ingly unabashed, advanced to the Earl's chair and bent
the knee, murmuring an apology for his delayed arrival.
Salisbury bade him stand, saying audibly : —

" In good truth, Anthony, you shame us all for
slovenliness in dress. T were well indeed that for the
evening you occupied my Lord Fitz-Geoffrey's empty
chair, here at my side. The gallants yonder have
brilliancy enow V their midst. You shall relieve
our soberness. Sit you here. Eh? What say you,
Hubert?"

To the astonishment of all at the table De Burgh
nodded an amused assent, and the Earl pushed Anthony
into the place of high honor at his left hand. There
was a little color in the youth's cheeks as he sank
hastily into the posture for grace. If no one else at the
table had perceived it, he, at least, had understood his
lord's mild rebuke for overdress, and his mortification
was sincere. William himself was clad in a sombre
suit of bottle-green, unembroidered and unornamented.
De Burgh supplemented him in a tunic of deep red,
with black hose and leather belt and pouch ; though in
truth it must be added that this plainness was only out
of respect to Salisbury's known taste for simplicity;
since the extent and richness of Hubert de Burgh's
wardrobe yielded the palm to none save the King's
own.

From the first, Anthony was uncomfortable in his new
place. In the eyes of his comrades, when he could
catch them, he found only curiosity. Mademoiselle
refused absolutely to look toward him. He was served
with food third of all that table-full. Never before had

farewell 45

he known the roasts, the pasty, and the roots so hot.
He felt himself conspicuous, and left without the power
to carry out his role. Before he had entered the room
he believed absolutely in his own ability to act. He
saw his dreary mistake now. Do what he would, his
heart and his expression together failed him. To keep
himself from overmuch thought, he fixed his eyes upon
the charming figure of her who bore the flower symbol ot
their relationship. Evidently the scarlet rose was being
commented upon from his rightful part of the table, for
he beheld Helene's color rise. Then, unexpectedly,
she turned her head, to glance stealthily at the brilliant
petals that burned upon the cold purity of his vestment.
In that glance she met his eyes full upon her. A
shadow of mingled confusion and anger crossed her
face, and, snatching her own rose from her gown, she
dropped it underneath the table.

Undoubtedly this performance was calculated to throw
Anthony into a state of doubt and anxiety as to her
feeling for him. He sighed at her happy ignorance of
the uselessness of that coquetry. What, evermore,
should he have to do with love, or the dallying with it?
What woman would make eyes at a sackcloth gown?
It was well for him that his feeling for her had never
been deep-rooted. It seemed that were his well of
bitterness to be deepened by one jot or tittle, it would
drive him mad. And as these cobwebs of thought were
spun out in his tired brain such a black look of moody
despair rose upon his face that Mademoiselle was even
prepared to smile upon him when he turned to her
again.

Hubert de Burgh also saw that expression, and guessed
that Salisbury's idle whim had made the youth uncom
fortable enough for the time. But in his address there
was also a courtier's purpose, which the Earl, who was
looking on, understood.

"Anthony!"

46

The young man glanced up to find Hubert's kindly
eyes upon him.

"Thy father, surely, is better of his illness? No
messenger hath reached us from Lambeth to-day, but
thy presence is proof of his recovery? "

" When I left my father's side this morning his sick
ness was in no way lessened," responded Anthony,
laconically, wondering if it would be opportune to
address the Earl on the matter now.

" Not lessened ! " cried De Burgh, while Salisbury's
face supplemented Hubert's astonishment. "Then how
come you here? "

" My father himself commanded me to come," was
the unsatisfactory answer.

" Do you return again to Lambeth, or remain with
us, then?" queried Salisbury, in a tone which expressed
nothing but courtesy.

Anthony looked up at last and spoke with something
like life in his tone, while he carefully noted the faces of
the two lords, who listened attentively to his speech :
" An your Grace permits, this must be my last night at
Windsor. I am bidden on a long and toilsome journey.
My father would have me set forth upon the morrow.
I had wished to speak of the matter to-night at least,
and sith now you have questioned me, I hereby crave
indulgence to quit your household and the King's, my
lord, that I may be free to do my father's bidding."

Anthony had spoken with marked slowness and pre
cision, that he might force himself to maintain his calm
demeanor. To his relief he finished the speech with
no hint of a break in his tone, though growing gravely
uncomfortable under the steady glance of De Burgh.

One of the young man's hands had lain carelessly
upon the table before him. Now, with a quiet gentle
ness that caused him to start painfully, he felt the
cool, strong hand of the Earl, William, brother of the
King, laid almost tenderly upon his own. He gave

faretocll 47

one startled look into the open face before him, and
the response that met his eyes forced a swift wave of
color to sweep over his face. He moved slightly and
his breath came fast. He was very near to breaking.

" Thou hast my permission, Anthony, to depart.
How were it possible for me to disregard the wish of
Hubert Walter? Yet thou knowest my pain at losing
thee from my house. Know that my thoughts go with
thee on thy distant journey. For the King, Hubert
here will answer."

Anthony tried hard to speak, but De Burgh covered
his useless effort. " The King also permits thy going,
Anthony, for, in truth, long since he spake to me upon
this matter. What more can I say than that which my
lord here hath already done? My thought is with
thee."

Anthony no longer attempted to reply, and his head
had fallen upon his breast. His hot eyes were closed.
His temples throbbed dully. Hubert said that long
since the King had known of this matter ! Salisbury
had told him that their thoughts were his ! His ruse
was useless. They knew his destiny, and had tried
to make him understand that they knew, and that they
pitied him. On their part it was mistaken kindness.
Pity he rebelled against. Pride at least was left. Once
again he raised his head, and in his face now lay an
expression of repellent haughtiness that did good credit
to his power of self-possession.

" I thank you, my lords, for your gracious permis
sion. However, my journey is one neither so danger
ous nor so arduous as to need your thoughts."

The two nobles were somewhat astonished at this,
perhaps ; but both of them possessed sufficient pene
tration, and also enough of charity, to understand and
forgive the discourtesy, while they admired the spirit
which prompted it.

Nothing more was to be said now among the three,

48

for in truth the situation was slightly strained. They
ate, or made pretence of eating, in silence. Anthony
had become acutely susceptible to the disagreeable
features of his surroundings. The gathering heat,
and the heavy odors of meats, wines, and stale per
fume in the immense room, the flickering, smoky dul-
ness of the torch-light, the shrillness of the many
voices, and the noise of laughter that flowed together
with the wine, all smote his senses with a sharp sting
of irritation, disgust, and — measureless regret. So
many, many times had he been part of all this ! Now
it was going from him. The thought and the attempt
at its banishment sickened him. He leaned forward
over the table, white, and faint. His eyes closed. He
had lost courage to attempt concealment of his pain.
De Burgh was watching him with a deep sympathy.
He saw Anthony sway slightly, arid thereupon touched
the Earl upon the arm. Salisbury looked up.

" Canst hasten the ending of the meal?" whispered
Hubert. " The eating is well-nigh over, and ere long
the folly will begin. Thou knowest the difficulty of
checking that, and Fitz-Hubert, as thou seest, can bear
little more."

William glanced at Anthony, then nodded, and looked
contemplatively down the table. The fruits and com
fits which ended the meal had already been passed.
Flagons of wine and mead were beginning to be in
great demand, and the story-telling and jesting which
were wont to drag out repasts to endless hours had
been begun. In the midst of all this the Earl rose to
his feet. His move was not instantly perceived, for it
was almost without precedent in the annals of Windsor.
When at length he was heard to call upon one of the
priests for the blessing, there was a general movement
of astonishment. However, etiquette demanded that
the meal should instantly be ended, and although
among the men there was not a little low-voiced com-

49

plaint, the general feeling was only of surprise that
the Earl, who was well known for a lover of good
company and good wine, should have sacrificed his
evening to an apparent whim. The Latin blessing
given, Salisbury, accompanied by De Burgh, and im
peded in his walk by the gambols of his dogs, left
the hall, to be followed at pleasure by those who did
not care to steal a last surreptitious horn of Burgundy
or tankard of ale.

Anthony rose with mighty relief. Blindly he hur
ried toward the doorway, in the footsteps of his kind-
. hearted liege. His one thought was to escape into
solitude and the pure night air. He was stopped, just
as he had passed into the corridor, by the lightest of
touches upon his arm. Then came a faint whisper at
his shoulder,—

"An — thony! "

" Mademoiselle ! " he returned, scarcely as surprised
as he might have been, yet scanning her face with im
petuous eagerness.

" Thou 'rt scarcely — courteous — to thy — friends,"
she said, turning her head a little and lowering her
eyes.

"Never, with thee, could I be discourteous. Twas
thou made me fear lest I had been too bold in my
feeling for thee," he whispered, taking her passive hand
into both of his. " Come with me now for a little on
to yonder terrace, in the moonlight. I would speak
with thee."

She replied with an acquiescent smile, with which he
was well satisfied. The little group of their compan
ions, left behind, glanced at each other as they saw the
two disappear. Their Anthony had come back again.
They felt no change in him. One ventured a conjec
ture as to whether Fitz-Hubert would be madcap enough
to attempt to follow Mademoiselle upon her road to
Winchester.

50 2Jncanom?et)

Anthony, his rich garment brushing the softly shin
ing robes of Helene de Ravaillac, led her out of the
castle and upon the southeastern terrace, where the
velvet turf was bathed in bluish stiver light ; while far
below, turning a little to the west, lay the shimmering
thread of the river, rippling softly through the per
fumed night into the deep emerald shadow of the
sleeping forest. All about the two was perfect silence.
What wonder they were loath to break the spell?
Anthony dreamily watched the familiar scene, not
daring to think, but only standing passive beside her
whose faint breath stirred the petals of the rose upon
his breast. Helene too, was silent, wondering, hoping,
fearing, — waiting for him to speak. A faint zephyr
of evening stirred the dark locks that clung about
Fitz-Hubert's head. He looked down upon the shin
ing gold beside him, and saw that three or four deli
cate tendrils of her hair lay twining on the shadowy
damask of his sleeve. A sudden, mighty longing
leaped into his heart. To banish it he was forced at
last to speak, and the words sprang fiercely from his
lips : —

"Mademoiselle — Helene — we are here to say —
farewell."

" ' Farewell,' " she repeated dreamily, without mov
ing; "'tis a pretty word, but, withal, most difficult to
speak."

" Yet must it be spoken," he responded, quietly now,
for he had regained his self-control. " Fare-thee-well,
- forever, — those two words alone."

" Forever ! " she exclaimed quickly. " Nay, nay -
assuredly not that! I shall not be forever at Win
chester. We shall meet again — mayhap not long
hence."

" Thy going to Winchester? I had forgotten that !"

" Thou hadst forgot ! " she echoed, bewildered. " Then
why — why shouldst bid me farewell?"

tfaretoell 51

" Ah, Helene," he said slowly, " 't is indeed more
difficult to tell than I had guessed. It is not thou who
leavest Windsor to-morrow forever, but I — Anthony."

" But why, why, Anthony? " she questioned, alarmed
now.

"Ah, Mademoiselle, why should I tell thee? Is 't
not enough to know that I must depart — forever? "

" You fright me," she whispered, drawing nearer to
him.

He took her into his arms and held her close, press
ing his lips once to her forehead. It was like his fare
well to humanity. "You — care — for — me?" he
asked, lowly.

" I love thee," she breathed, in a kind of sob.

" And I thee ! " he exclaimed in sudden fierceness,
flinging the words in rebellion at the inexorable future
which could not even hear him.

"Then why must we say it — the word? Thinkest
thou I fear to follow thee? " she whispered, tremulously.

His arms fell from about her, and he drew back one
quick step, a look crossing his face that startled her into
forgetting her own indignity at the repulse.

"Thou couldst not follow me, — ever — " he said,
" because I am bound by sacred oath to leave the
world ; because by law of birth I have no right to ask
of any woman her love ; because henceforth my home
must be a dream of memory to me ; because thou wilt
stand as far above me as yonder moon is from the
earth ; because, Helene, my word hath been given to
my father, Hubert, Archbishop of Canterbury, that for
his sake I will bid freedom and happiness farewell, to
take in their stead the lonely vows of a Benedictine
monk."

For a moment she looked at him, trying fully to
comprehend what it was that he had said. Then its
meaning pierced her brain. In an instant all the soft
gentleness of her manner dropped from her like a gar-

52 <Hncanoni?efc

ment. She drew her trailing robes about her and
stepped quickly back. A single petal from his rose
had fallen upon her breast. She snatched it from its
lurking-place and flung it to the grass.

" A monk ! — and thou hast dared — to touch me ! "
she said, as if she would have spat upon him. Anthony
could not see the flood of grief, disappointment, and
wounded pride that prompted her action. He only
beheld her turn about, after these words, and move
swiftly from him toward the castle door, her eyes blind
with tears.

He stood staring dazedly at the spot she had left.
He saw and heard nothing except in memory. His
white dress shimmered in the moonlight, with more life
in its purity than was in his face. His soul was wrapped
in the awful bitterness of his destiny — the punishment
for his father's sin.

In his vale of sorrow he did not see the figure that
was approaching, — the figure of a man coming toward
him from the shadow of the castle wall. It was Hubert
de Burgh, who, after leaving Salisbury in his oratory,
had sought a little hour of silent meditation in the
beauty of the night, and unwittingly came upon this
scene, which had drawn from him a low exclamation
of pity for the youth.

Anthony was startled at his sudden presence, and it
was unconsciously that he laid his cold hand in the
warm one held out to him.

" God be with thee forever, Anthony. Man holds no
help for thee but sympathy."

And Anthony, attained so suddenly to manhood,
answered him, not trying to restrain his open sob :
" God bless you, Hubert, even as by Him I am crushed."

CHAPTER III

SACKCLOTH AND THE ALTAR

AT Windsor the morning dawned gray with heat.
The air was lifeless ; the sun, rolling lazily up the
eastern sky, scarcely deigned to permit his beams
to penetrate the humid atmosphere. In the night a
heavy dew had fallen, and the lush turf on the edge of
the forest was a sparkling mass of drops. The fra
grance from the rose-gardens was stifling. The very
insects and worms lay inert about the shrubs and foli
age. In the west a falling arch of heavy clouds hung
low over the tree-tops. It was an unnatural morning —
one which presaged a storm.

Windsor Forest was still dark when, out of its dismal,
cool depths, rode a single horseman. His beast, pant
ing in the damp heat, stumbled wearily up the steep
ascent to the castle. At the lodge gate the rider dis
mounted. He thought to arouse the keeper, have the
portcullis raised and the drawbridge lowered. To his
exceeding surprise, his feet had hardly left their stir
rups when the gate opened, and a man in riding-dress
stepped outside into the road.

"Thou art betimes, De Glanville. You must have
left Lambeth by midnight at least. Enter here and
eat the meal prepared. When thou 'st finished, and
thy horse be fed, we will proceed."

" Thou also, Anthony, art early," responded De Glan
ville, following his companion into the little room. " I
had scarce counted upon rinding thee awake at such an
hour."

54 2!ncanoni?et)

" Awake ! " cried the young man before him. " Surely
you have been dreaming to imagine I should sleep.
Ah, Gilbert ! you have worn the cowl for many a long
year, I fear me ; " and Anthony turned upon the new
comer a face that was gray and drawn. He was hardly
to be identified with the man from whom De Glanville
had parted only the day before.

An hour after the priest's arrival at Windsor he
departed thence again, upon a freshened steed, that
trotted willingly flank to flank with a well-groomed
mare. Anthony bestrode this horse, which he could no
longer call his own, though it had been his since its
earliest colthood. Behind his heavy saddle was fast
ened a little bundle containing all the worldly goods
remaining to him from his old life. About them the
village of Windsor was just stirring. Behind them the
castle slept. Anthony, grown cowardly of pity and
of renewed grief, had stolen from the castle the night
before, directly after parting from De Burgh, and spent
the night in the porter's lodge across the moat, the
old keeper thinking him up to one of his boyish esca
pades. Once only, as they wound down the road, did
the young man glance behind him at the lofty battle
ments that rose toward the summer heavens. Once only,
and then his head jerked around again and he coughed.

They rode in silence. De Glanville thought uneasily
that it would be better to leave a beginning of speech
to the younger man, unable to realize how impossible
such a beginning would be. Indeed, the priest had
looked forward to this ride with a good deal of dread.
He, a monk since boyhood, was able to realize far more
acutely than Anthony the greatness of the sacrifice of
youth and joy and love that was being made. He was
familiar with the life of pleasure and indulgence that
the Archbishop's son had led.

In actual probability Hubert Walter himself was un
aware of the extent of sacrifice which he had demanded

ana t^e aitat; 55

from his son. It was years since he had risen beyond
his first priesthood. His bigoted later life had been
surrounded with every luxury and pleasure save the
one of secular existence. Everything of his worldly
power, which was all in all to him, had come into his
reach through the assistance of the Church. How, then,
was he to be expected to regard the Church as did the
lower orders? He was putting his son in almost pre
cisely the same position which he himself first had
occupied. There was but this difference ; that, whereas
Hubert Walter had voluntarily entered the cloister,
fresh from poverty, ill-treatment, and degradation, his
son, Anthony, was involuntarily rejecting luxury, pop
ularity, and all the pleasures of a royal court, that he
might don the sackcloth and try, by prayers and fast
ing, to forget what happiness had meant. If Hubert
Walter at all regarded this side of the argument he
doubtless found for it the usual ready answer of the
Church : " Better self-denial here and heaven hereafter,
than present indulgence and ultimate hell."

Pondering upon these things and others that they
engendered, Gilbert de Glanville rode on, more and
more oblivious of his companion's presence and of the
gathering heat. Anthony thought nothing of the priest's
moodiness. His own senses were dull from excess of
emotion and want of sleep. He occupied his time
in idle imaginings, with languid contemplation of the
scenery, with irritability at the heat. There was elec
tricity in the air. It might be seen in the dulness of
the foliage, that refused its sheen to the very sunlight;
and Anthony felt it instinctively in the quivering ner
vousness of his horse. The prospect of a storm pleased
him. A violent sweep of rain and wind might relieve
his intangible unhappiness. After a time he turned
toward his companion, wishing to address a question
to him. De Glanville's eyes were fixed on the eastern
horizon.

56

" Gilbert ! " he said sharply.

The priest turned and looked at him. " The first
duty of thy novitiate, Anthony," he said coldly, " will
be to address your clerical superiors in a proper manner.
To you I am ' father.' "

While he was speaking Anthony stared haughtily
at the confessor. Then he turned crimson with un
warrantable anger, and shut his lips tight together. He
continued silent.

" Thou didst address me, Anthony," said the priest,
gently.

The young man looked up again. His inward struggle
was visibly strong. He had his father's imperious
nature, and a quickness of temper that was his own.
After a little he made himself speak; though his voice
was unnatural ; for he knew that this was a first victory
or a first defeat, over himself.

"We can scarce reach Canterbury to-day. Where
do we rest to-night? "

" At Rochester Abbey."

" I would rather the castle. The Earl knows me
well."

" Wouldst wish to sit at table just above the salt? "

" Never ! — I am no monk yet, Master Glanville,"
and the young man's tone was such as he would never
have used toward an equal.

Gilbert was nettled at this childishness. " Indeed,
Master Fitz-Hubert, you have spoken truly. You are
as yet no monk, but something lower than that. I,
your superior, have deigned to inform my novice that
we sleep to-night at Rochester Abbey."

So did the priest fling the first bitterness of his
humiliation into Anthony's face. The words were
scarcely spoken ere one of the horses leaped violently,
then plunged forward and ran like a whirlwind down
the road until he was hidden in the shadow of a neigh
boring wood. It was Anthony's steed that had thus

anD t^e 3Utar 57

responded to a cruel thrust of the spur at the young
man's heel. The priest raised his brows slowly as he
beheld him go. Here was a troublesome spirit indeed,
that was more like to break than ever to be bent, it
seemed. It was twenty minutes before his solemnly
trotting mare came up with that of his companion,
which was now slowly pacing the highway, bearing a
rider whose head was lowered as in shame.

De Glanville cast a swift, searching glance at the
half-concealed face of the Archbishop's son. Some
what to the priest's surprise the expression of that face
was satisfactory. In the battle of nature, strangely
enough, the weaker side had won. The spirit had
bent. That night, in the midst of a driving storm,
while the thunder crashed angrily adown the heavens,
and the clouds were ablaze, and the floods fell through
the dark vault, the priest of Canterbury and his novice
were received into the grateful shelter of Rochester
Abbey.

Anthony had been in abbeys before this, but never
had he regarded each lightest move on the part of his
hosts with such intensely eager curiosity. The monks
seemed gentle, pale-faced creatures, whose voices were
far lower than those of ordinary men. There was no
sign of anything arduous in their duties, for Anthony
had no conception of the meaning of their real routine.
This illustrious guest, Father Gilbert of Canterbury,
had thrown the hospitable brotherhood into some con
fusion. So unusually adorned and increased was the
collation that compline was an hour late, evening con
fession entirely omitted, and the provision for the mor
row's dinner reduced to very scanty proportions.

The novice rode away next morning with something
like relief in his heart. Superficially, monkhood was in
nowise repellent. The brethren were cleaner than the
masses, their tonsures were not necessarily large, and
from one or two highly entertaining stories told at table,

58 <Uttcanoni?eti

which De Glanville had done his best to keep from his
charge's ears, Anthony decided that even a monk could
live, at times, if so he dared defy providence. Thus at
evening of the next day, when, at sunset, they rode
together into the Cathedral city, it was more with a
youthful feeling of anticipatory curiosity than anything
deeper, that the son of Archbishop Hubert, by the side
of his grave-faced companion, drew rein at the gateway
of the great Augustinian Monastery of Canterbury,
where the short novitiate was to be undergone.

Behold Anthony next in that Augustinian Monastery
as he was on a certain December night six months and
a few days after he had said farewell to Windsor. It
was the last night of his novitiate, the last night that
there would be a loop-hole of escape for him. On the
morrow the eternal vows were to pass his lips. Hence
forth he would be known as " brother " to all humanity.
This night he was to spend upon his knees in the chapel
of the saint, supposedly in prayer. It was a solitary
vigil, for no companion could be granted him. A dan
gerous thing for a novice was this, had the monks but
realized it, — this putting one for ten hours alone at the
mercy of his thoughts. And Anthony shuddered as
they left him, kneeling upon the stones, before the
burning shrine.

Face and figure — behold him. How old ! How ema
ciated and shrunken and hopelessly old he looked, as he
knelt there in his ungainly garments, his bare feet pro
truding behind him. His figure was so attenuated as to
have become misshapen. His face, which formerly had
always born the open expression of happiness, was hard
now, unreadable and impassive. His hands, once white
and well-cared-for, were dark, wrinkled, knotted, and
fiercely strong. As he held his body straight from the
knees upward it was difficult to perceive how much
weaker this body had grown. There was a pathetically

anD t^e aitar 59

haughty poise to his head still, but it had not saved him
from indignity. His skin was dark and colorless, and
there appeared to be no flesh beneath it. His whole
appearance was uncouth, — more so now than it ever
was again ; though, strangely enough, the greater part
of his suffering came after the vows. By then he had
learned how to endure.

Still, these last months had been horrible. The
homesickness through which he had passed had left
him sensibly prostrate. Fasting and overstudy com
pleted the change in his appearance and in his nature.
Working at books sometimes for a little while brought
forgetfulness to him, therefore he sought them con
tinually even during the periods of rest. He had
entered the monastery totally ignorant of letters, a
thing quite usual for a noble or layman. But to one of
Anthony's temperament it was unbearable to find him
self the only member of the little community unable to
take a place with his companions in library or scripto
rium. These men were far advanced in studies of
Greek and Latin ; conversant with creeds of which he
knew nothing; familiar with philosophies of which he
had never heard ; and able to transcribe these same
things into their own language or into Latin, in marvel
lous letters, and upon parchments illuminated like rain
bows. The prospect of this work fascinated the novice,
and with such assiduity did he apply himself to the task
that, by the end of his novitiate, he rivalled the best of
his companion novices in ease of reading, but had long
since outstripped them in understanding ; for Anthony
Fitz-Hubert was no fool. The brush of the illuminator
came always somewhat awkwardly to his hand ; but
many a worse scribe was to be found in the monastery.

The immoderate fasting for which he had become
noted was begun in repulsion from the coarse and unpal
atable fare provided for him, which he could only force
himself to eat when in a state of semi-starvation. It

60

was continued out of disgust for the incredible gour-
mandism of his superiors. Thus Hubert Walter's son
had come to be regarded as a wonderful ascetic.
Ascetic he was, fiercely so, out of a sense of defiled
honor at merely beholding the lax customs in force
around him. Considering Anthony's birth and his later
environment, the strain of lofty purity in him was some
what singular. Looseness in speech and morals, and
disregard for accepted laws, grated on him unendurably.
In after years he learned to bear these things in silent
scorn ; now he opposed them bitterly by making his
own life as strict as others were indulgent One small
service this distaste did him, in return for the under
mining of his health ; it took his mind to a certain
degree from himself, and left him less prone to the self-
analysis which at this time might have driven him
insane.

During the novitiate Anthony had grown to hate
monkery as he would never have dreamed he could
hate anything. But neither to his confessor nor to
himself did he ever whisper a suggestion of departing
from the sackcloth and leaving his vows unsaid. The
reason for this, however contradictory it might be, was
mighty in its angry resolution. The Archbishop of
Canterbury was not dead ; and since the June of his
illness, and his pitiful prayer to his son for the sacrifice
which that son had made, Anthony had had not one
word of encouragement, love, or thanks from him whom
he had come to regard with a kind of wonder. So
Anthony's was a resolution of stubborn pride. His
promise had been given. The promise should be ful
filled, even while he knew that that fulfilment was suck
ing the life from his body and the courage from his
soul. This that was being done was, to tell the truth,
the precise thing that Hubert Walter had intended to
happen. He dared send no love to his son, for he
guessed rightly that one word of pity would do more to

ana t^e aitar 61

break Anthony's spirit than all the cruelty which he
had endured. He believed the son capable of pleading
to a natural father. But Hubert Walter was not young ;
his death, he knew well, could be not many years off;
and since now his future was well provided for, it were
assuredly folly to destroy the arrangement by which
he was to win heaven. So Anthony was left to his
bitterness.

The last night of the novitiate wore away. The little
chapel was freezing in temperature, for a December wind
shrieked outside the building, and the only thing to
warm its interior was the array of candles before the
shrine of the saint. In his scant tunic, his limbs bare,
Anthony's flesh quivered with cold. He did not pray,
but a few murmured words froze and died upon his lips.
His forehead was icy, but his head within burned with
the fire of his miserable thoughts. In the morning they
picked him up from where he lay, senseless, upon the
stones.

The vows of monkhood came from almost unconscious
lips, and the first weeks of his new estate passed in vio
lent illness. On the day of the ceremony of his entering
the Church, he was forced to stand, supported on either
side by a brother. Afterwards he was carried to his
cell and laid upon the straw pallet, over which, in pity,
the brethren had thrown an extra coverlet. In the
delirium of his fever, he raved wildly over the dogmas
of the Church, until it was generally conceded that a
religious fanatic lay breathing his life away in the gloom
of the monastery. So some of the brethren envied him,
and Hubert Walter wept in remorse and dread as Gilbert
Glanville reported the progress of the disease.

Anthony recovered. To one knowing anything of the
relentlessness of Fate and the character of the newly
made monk, that result would have been a foregone
conclusion. And none realized better than Anthony
himself the unreliability of that promise whose gleam

62

fled, as rapidly as it had come, into the tense blackness
of his life's horizon. Well he knew that he was not to
die. What more would Hubert Walter have?

After the first days of convalescence, Anthony re
quested that he might be given certain hours of monas
tic duty, desiring to relieve himself a little from his own
thoughts. He found these duties widely different from
those of the novice. They were looked upon with a
different spirit. Before, while he had been but wander
ing through the by-paths that led to the locked gate of
the garden, the thought of that garden had had some
times a curious fascination for him, even while he realized
that his hopeless hope was only in escaping from its
vicinity in time. Now that time was gone. He had
entered in and the gate was locked behind him; and
around, on four lofty sides, rose the unscalable wall. In
a sudden flash he realized all. He was a prisoner for
ever, — a prisoner to whom was never granted a single
hour of cleanly solitude ; a prisoner forced to be always
at a round of time-decayed, useless prayers, so old that
the memory of their very origin was lost down the ages.
And these duties must be gone about in company with
a host of ill-smelling creatures — his brothers — the very
distant sight of whom he had grown to loathe.

This monastery of Saint Augustine at Canterbury had
privately, among the priesthood, as bad a reputation as
any religious house in the kingdom. Its abbots had
been but a long succession of avaricious and licentious
scoundrels, who went unpunished and unhung because
secular law was powerless to touch a priest, and the
clerical courts dared not run the risk of any such expose
of facts as such a trial was likely to bring forth. Like
master, like man. The monks followed the example of
their chiefs, and advanced rapidly toward the enviable
end of becoming the most corrupt body of brethren in
England. Their neighbors in abbeys and convents de
spised them, and they knew it. This deterred them not

ant) ttye altar 63

at all from their ways. Their quarrel with the little
chapter of the cathedral was of long standing; and the
knowledge that Anthony was a friend to the prior of
that body did not increase his somewhat doubtful
popularity among them. They thought him superior,
and they feared his father. Thus, while they dared no
open wrong to him, his life was none the happier for his
birthright.

The anguish of mind that the black monk, as he had
come to be called, endured among these men is in
describable. But in the spring of the year 1204 came
his first good fortune. A vacancy occurred in the
chapter of Canterbury Cathedral ; and, according to
the old promise, Anthony was elected to the place.
The reason why his whole novitiate and accession to
the tonsure should not have been passed among these
men, a special place being made for him with them, was
because of their intimate connection with the highest
prelate in the realm. A knowledge of the Arch
bishop's failing would have proved a death-blow to the
respect in which they were bound to hold him. There
fore Anthony was treated among them like any monk
who, by some preferment, had obtained the honor of
admission to their body. With the prior, Geoffrey,
Hubert Walter's secret was secure.

There were only thirty regular monks in the chapter,
and besides these was the constantly changing number
of novices, acolytes, and laymen who occupied separate
apartments in the tiny group of buildings back of the
cathedral. In his new abode Anthony found a new
atmosphere. Here at least was rigid purity, celibacy,
and gravity. On the other hand, it would have been
difficult to find in the world another handful of men
with creeds so narrow, belief so bigoted, ideas so small
as these, whose hot opposition to philosophy and the
broader scholasticism had won them renown, hate, and
admiration among the students of that day. They were

64 <Hncanoni?e&

narrow, sordid, and absolutely bound up in the privi
leges of their own community. Their ill-advised, Pope-
bestowed power, my Lord Hubert Walter had once, in
an unlucky moment, endeavored to remove from them.
It was the single recorded defeat in the list of the
Archbishop's battles.

In the nine months that Anthony had endured at the
large monastery, he had, considering his early igno
rance, become wonderfully versed in the philosophy of
his day. The spiritless disputes at that place had at
least served the purpose of fixing his opinions so firmly
that the companions of his new abode were slightly
astonished. His admiration for the works of Scotus
Erigena, condemned to be burned twenty years later
by order of Honorius III., was profound. Again, he
opposed the treatises of Othlo against dialectic. He
scoffed at Walter of Mortaigne, he espoused realism, he
smiled at Neo-Platonism ; but the newly revived study
of Aristotle and his many works, reached and introduced
into Europe by Arabian philosophers, he took up with
ardor, however heretical the tendency. On account of
all these unorthodox ideas he was disliked and regarded
most suspiciously in the chapter. At the same time
his opponents held him in unwilling respect for the
logical ability of his arguments. After a time these
broad disputes, most impartially conducted upon his
side, degenerated into matters more and more petty,
until at length Anthony forsook controversy in despair.
Even without the library, now, however, he was not let
alone. The brethren felt that he had suffered defeat.
They pursued him indefatigably with credos and ques
tions, until he began to feel that his life was but one
long, unendurable, irritating quarrel, that tore at his
nerves and sapped his mental strength. Then at last
he learned the lesson of reserve. How should he have
learned it sooner? In all his youth he had talked freely
and been listened to with respect and without malice.

anli ftye altar 65

Now he became the opposite of all this and was morose,
irritable, and unapproachable. At last he was left to
live within himself. Gradually the broiling members
of the miniature community let him alone, since they
could not well quarrel with a stick. Silence became
the strongest characteristic of the monk Anthony. His
battles were fought so, and if they were won none the
less hardly, it at least seemed to Geoffrey that he
was becoming reconciled to his position. This report
Hubert Walter received with joy.

The most painful thing in the son's existence now was
the necessity of beholding his father. One mass in
each month, at the very least, the Archbishop con
ducted at the cathedral. At these masses he was
assisted by the entire chapter. Frequently, also, after
the service Hubert would enter the convent for refresh
ment or to converse with the brethren. At these times
he never noticed Anthony, — he could not, indeed ;
but the strain of the silence between them he never
seemed to feel as did the son. There was a kind of
horror in Anthony's heart for the man who, through a
selfish fear, had been content to ruin his life. The
monk had undoubtedly grown unreasonable, and his
sensibilities become shrinkingly acute. The sight that
always bade him seek a furious solitude was that of the
haughty face and royal bearing of him whose priestly
robes were woven of cloth of gold, and whose staff and
mitre were crusted with such gems as lay not in the
crown of England's King.

If Prior Geoffrey knew anything of Anthony's feeling
toward his father he never mentioned his knowledge
to any one. To the Archbishop were given the most
satisfactory reports of the gradual decrescendo of the
son's passion of unrest; and Hubert had forgotten
enough of the feeling of his early years as a priest to
accept what was told him and be content. To say that
my Lord Fitz- Walter had felt no such qualms of con-

5

66

science over the demand made upon his son would have
been untrue. To say that his sleepless nights on this
account had been many would be untrue also. A vague
feeling of something not quite pleasant in himself, an
occasional sudden retrospection of the whole matter ;
then the recognition of something inevitable — that it
was a little hard upon Anthony perhaps — that was all.
That Anthony could despise him or hate him never for
a moment entered into his consideration. His own
feeling toward his son was too kindly, too full of grati
tude for that. For the Archbishop could recognize the
greatness in a deed, even while he regarded that deed
as inevitable. Fitz-Walter had often sincerely regretted
that the bedroom scene at Lambeth had not actually
been his last. In his own eyes he was an old man, and
for many years he had been subject to morbid presenti
ments about the time and manner of his death. In the
year of the accession of John to the throne Hubert
Walter had undergone a mortal illness, from which he
never regained his full strength, being subject to fre
quent and severe sicknesses of the body, and even more
often to mental attacks resembling melancholia.1 And
once when Geoffrey of the chapter had said to him,
half in jest, that the archiepiscopal chair would be occu
pied far longer than the prior's stool in the convent ot
Canterbury cathedral, Hubert had taken the matter seri
ously and rejoiced secretly over it.

In the spring of the year 1205 the Archbishop's mel
ancholy increased greatly. His confessor was with him
continually, and the old man talked ever of death. Not
a word of regret for anything, outside of the confes
sional, passed Hubert's lips, for this was not his way.
The greater part of these months he spent in quiet
at Lambeth. The monks of Canterbury were ignorant
of his condition. Toward the end of June his strength
and his will rose again within him, and he journeyed

1 Hook, Lives of the Archbishops.

^>ac6clotlj anD t^e aitar 67

once more to the Cathedral City, where twice he con
ducted mass, the second time on July sixth. After
the service he entered the convent behind the cathe
dral, and, after partaking of food in the refectory, he
addressed the assembled monks in his old, musical
voice : —

" I would have you, dearly beloved, to examine your
selves that ye may discover wherein ye have done
wrong, with a view to amendment therein. When, by
God's will, I shall be dead, you, who cannot die, should
devote all your endeavors to promote the honor and
usefulness of your Church. If I have offended any of
you in any respect, I ask your forgiveness ; and such as
may have offended me I heartily forgive. Believe me,
beloved brethren, I am more sorrowful for your troubles
than for my own." 1

These words, save a few inconsequent ones of depart
ure, were the last that Anthony ever heard his father
speak. There was not a sentence, not a whisper, not a
look, to him who stood alone in a corner of the room.
Hubert Walter could not, at that moment, meet the eyes
of his son.

A day later the Archbishop left Canterbury accom
panied by De Glanville. At Tenham, on the London
road, he was seized with an illness so violent that it was
impossible for him to proceed further. For three days
he lay at the inn in the little town. The Bishop of
Rochester alone reached his side before the end. His
will he dictated to De Glanville. In it there was no
mention of Anthony. Upon the eleventh day of July,
Hubert Walter died there at Tenham ; and Canterbury
was draped in black.

Two weeks later, and at nearly the same hour of the

day in which the Archbishop had passed away, Geoffrey,

the prior, presiding over the noon meal in the refectory

of the chapter, suddenly fell forward upon the table, his

1 Hook, Lives of the Archbishops.

68

arms at his sides, dead. It was a tremendous shock to
the brethren, the more so since a certain momentous
election was to take place in the tiny convent within a
few days, and these helpless monks were now without
their chief. After-events in England, France, and Italy
were truthfully ascribed, some hundreds of years later,
to that sudden moment of rebellion at Prior Geoffrey's
heart. Little things ! Little things ! All history has
been made out of them ! To their leader's place the
simple monks made haste to elect another of their num
ber, — an older man than the rest, a dogmatic, absolute,
determined person of some sound sense and more blind
impetuosity, Elias Brantfeld, later ambassador to his
Holiness at Rome.

CHAPTER IV

REGINALD

IT was past eleven o'clock of an August night, three
weeks after the death of the Archbishop, and nine
days since the burial of Geoffrey. The immense black
ness within the cathedral stretched upward vastly into
its great arching roof, giving to him who, pygmy-
like, should stand within it, an oppression of enormity.
Outside, in the narrow, empty streets of the little city, a
stream of unbearable night-heat swirled about the clus
tering houses of wood or stone; but here, in the centre
of the black nave of this monument to God from man,
there was a chill in the air, coming sweetly to one's lips
from the angelic heights of the vault. Black it was, and
unutterably still.

The silence and the darkness alike were pierced by
the advent of two dimly robed figures, who passed from
the vestry near the north transept to the high altar
above the chancel steps, moving in a little circle of light
cast by the tapers in their hands. These two seemed
not to feel the oppressiveness of the place ; for one was
speaking earnestly to the other.

It was an unusual hour for monks to be abroad ; too
early for matins, and far later than compline. None
the less they were sure of themselves and their errand,
for they proceeded without hesitation to the altar,
shrouded as it was in utter darkness. Anthony's com
panion addressed him ; and, in the earnestness of his
speech, took no notice, apparently, of the other's lower
ing brow and grim expression.

70

" Now as we do proceed in this matter, brother, I
grow fearful. In spirit Reginald seemeth whiles a very
child. Come — thou 'st been full silent concerning all
this business, yet now that we two are alone in this
spot where none can hear us, speak thy mind to me.
The word shall be held sacred as in confessional. Yet
am I anxious for thy thought, mine own fear being
strong."

They were standing before the great altar, whose
carven stone and damask cloth shone mistily in the
faint light. Anthony pressed his taper to a wick of
one of the great candles. As they mingled together the
two flames flickered violently. The young monk's
hand was trembling. Hastily he passed to the next
candle, and then, at last, he spoke again, his mellow
voice showing no sign of emotion, though there was
strong feeling within, and Alexander's ears were critical
and curious.

" The affair is none of mine to speak upon, sith it
concerns my business with the sackcloth little, and
troubleth my spirit not at all. Thou knowest my rela
tion to the brethren. They are not of me nor I of
them. Their anxiety over the election moveth me not.
Methinks his Holiness will have more to say over it
than thou or I, and, an I misdoubt me not, one side of
the papal mouth will be given over to the wishes of our
good King John."

Alexander's comment on this last phrase was a short,
not wholly pleasant laugh. " Ever ready to hold up
for others the natures of other men, never willing to
speak thyself to any. Thine is a lonely life, Anthony."

" And why speak of myself, good Alexander? Dost
forget that either I am soulless, or else my spirit,
damned from its beginning, will scarce be saved by the
prayers that I must put forth for another ? Why, thou
art defiled in the very conversing with me ! Have they
not told thee that? "

71

The tone in which these words were spoken defied
answer, even had Alexander been brilliant enough to
compose one which should not hurt his friend's feeling
and yet be accordant with the creed which both
believed. Therefore he only laid one brotherly hand
upon the drooping shoulder of his friend (for Anthony
had a friend in him), and, their unwonted task being
finished, they returned toward the vestry, whence pro
ceeded the murmur of many voices.

One end of the cathedral was now luminous with the
pale glow from innumerable slender candles of every
length, ranged in 'gradated order upon the altar. The
mellow radiance from this miniature sun drove the
gloom a quarter of the way down the cathedral. The
carven doors at the farther end were shut and locked.
The only way of entering the church to-night was
through vestry, chantry, or sacristy, by way of the
north and south transepts, to which only monks of
the chapter convent had access. No sound that should
ring out within these mighty walls to-night could reach
the ears of any loiterer or sleepless one who might be
within the streets beyond. And this was as the brethren
intended.

Upon the night of August second, six hundred and
ninety-five years ago, thirty young men and one older
one were about to enact a bit of history, which, for
eleven years to come, was to keep two kingdoms and
all Christendom in a state of outrageous turmoil ; and,
indeed, from the seed planted that night sprang a tree
under whose shadow a portion of the world to-day
is living. Of this small fact the thirty young men
remained in lofty ignorance, while the chief character
istic of the older one was intense and unreasoning short
sightedness. To them this act meant merely the lawful
exercising of an ill-bestowed privilege. For this little,
impolitic and unworldly body held the power of choos
ing out for England her premier, once of Church alone,

72

lately of both Church and State, him who bowed only
to the Pope in matters spiritual, and had been known
to override the King in secular affairs. The archie-
piscopal chair had been long enough empty for the
mourning of Hubert Walter, and so the Canterbury
monks, highly sanguine of temperament, thought to
settle to-night, in an hour, upon the appointment of his
next Grace. Curiously enough, when one thought of
it, King John also had spent some hours of his valuable
time in ruminating over this same matter, and, being
a man not often backward with opinion, had himself
settled upon the person of his next counsellor-in-chief.
And all this time, down in the Eternal City, in a small
room in the midst of the fiery midsummer heat, smiled,
and dreamed, and smiled again his fiery Holiness,
Innocent Tertius, Saint Peter's successor, who suddenly
waved his hand and perceived in an instant how he
should rule the world.

Meantime, on this August midnight, the quiescent
echoes of the vast cathedral were violently roused by
the unseemly noise of the sixteen-noted organ, a Ger
man innovation, played ponderously by a monk of the
chapter, who was constrained to use a fist to each key.
There came a few fragmentary murmurs from the sac
risty, the pushing aside of a leather curtain, and then
through the aisles rose the sound of a subdued pro
cessional chant. Slowly, in double file, the monks
entered the church walking to the rhythm of the Latin
words which they sang. Anthony and Alexander were
together, directly behind the leaders of the line. And
these two foremost ones would bear closer inspection ;
for the picture of the two was not a simple one. Con
trast was its key-note — contrast of one to the other, and
of the two to the twenty-eight. The cowl and scapular
of him on the left did not suffice to conceal his marked
individuality. He was the newly elected prior, Elias
Brantfeld, who was later to pit his strength against that

IKcgtnalD 73

of the Pope; the oldest man in the chapter, yet whose
ring of hair was raven-black still. And he who walked
upon the right was Reginald, Archbishop of Canterbury
elect, and sub-prior of the chapter. In years he was
not yet thirty, in spirit he bordered upon sixteen.
Brantfeld was slightly past fifty, tall and gaunt in figure,
dark of countenance, eyes intensely black, a hawk's
nose, and a jaw whose iron obstinacy boded ill for the
opposer of any cause that lay close to his heart, were
that opponent the Pope himself.

But how Elias Brantfeld, with the depth of intellect
which he did indeed possess, ever came to regard the
boyish Reginald as in any way eligible for the position
first held by Saint Augustine, is one of those problems
of humanity unsolvable by any logic. True, the sub-
prior was past twenty-nine, being four years older than
Anthony. But a monk does not develop normally.
The routine of a monastic existence does one of two
things ; either it ages a man beyond the conception of
reason, or it leaves him forever a child in body and
heart. The latter experience had been that of Reginald.
His face, a rarely lovely one to look upon, was that of a
pure boy. His chin was smooth as any woman's, and
the altar-cloth was not so white as his delicate hands.
At present the eager fire in his blue eyes and the.
nervous excitement betrayed in the twitching of his
lips proved him more or less lacking in appreciation of
the great gravity of his present position. In his left
hand Reginald held a small and richly bound volume
of Latin prayers, transcribed and exquisitely illuminated
by himself. As the procession neared the altar the
young man's eyes encountered those of Brantfeld. For
an instant only the glance lasted ; but in that time
Reginald had read again for the hundredth time the
feeling of abandoned devotion towards himself, which,
unaccountable as it seemed, formed the key-note to the
character of the older man.

74

The clamor of the organ died away. The chant
ceased, and the monks silently drew into a close semi
circle about the high altar, lighted now for the first
time since the death of Hubert Walter. There was a
short and impressive stillness ; then, at a sign from the
prior, the brethren sank upon their knees, while the
high, melodious voice of Reginald was raised in prayer.
As the familiar words left his lips it became easy to
judge of this man's overwhelming amount of personal
magnetism, which characteristic had actually been the
sole factor in his elevation from the position of common
monk, with the empty title of sub-prior, to the loftiest
place to which the Church of Rome could raise any
man in England.

After the prayer, the brethren chanted the Agnus
Dei, while Reginald lay prostrate on the stones at the
foot of the golden crucifix. When the last words had
died away, a hush fell upon the group. Reginald's face
was invisible to his fellows, but that of Elias Brantfeld,
now turned toward them, was set in an expression
of dogged resolution. The address which he made
to the Archbishop elect was perhaps less eloquent than
had been those of the long line of his predecessors. But
it was earnest enough strongly to strike the impression
able mind of his chief listener ; whose transparent eyes
were raised unwaveringly to his face.

Anthony knelt by the side of Alexander at the
extreme left of the semicircle. Not a hint of any
emotion showed upon his face, yet he was going
through a sharp struggle within. Perhaps it was only
that he, of them all, was the one who saw and under
stood the baseless effectiveness of the young sub-prior,
and read some of the shallow thoughts that lay under
the halo of golden hair that encircled his tonsure, giving
him the appearance of a saint or an angel. Perhaps
it was something more selfish, deeper, more bitter and
more helpless than this. However, whatever it was,

75

Anthony Fitz-Hubert was not a monk of words, and
though the affair of to-night preyed cruelly upon his
memory, and racked a sudden fiercely combated ambi
tion, it failed to engage that intellectual will which, in
its late rapid development, had changed the nature of
Anthony the boy to that of a heavily y eared man.

Brantfeld's homily ended with something of abrupt
ness. There was not too much time to be spared for
this ceremony. The monks rose in haste and gathered
closely at the right of the chancel, where stood, impos
ing and uncomfortable, the archiepiscopal chair. Before
the historic seat Reginald of Canterbury took his stand.
His face was slightly flushed and his demeanor less self-
conscious than it had been.

At a sign from Alexander two of the monks left the
church and passed hastily into the vestry. Brantfeld,
more impressive than ever, took from the altar the
sacred chalice filled with the wine of communion, and
the holy wafer, consecrated by the Pope for an un-
guessed purpose. The cup was of chased gold, heavily
set with jewels. These gems caught upon their surfaces
the light from the altar-candles, and the reflected fire
flashed in Reginald's eyes, as he, kneeling, partook alone
of his last monastic communion. The brethren about him
meantime stood. This ceremony over, the monks from
the vestry re-entered, bringing with them the priceless
stole, mitre, and staff last borne by Hubert Walter. Reg
inald glanced once, quickly, at these things, and his
eyes, if not his lips, smiled with delight. Anthony
watched him with scorn in his look. Reginald suddenly
straightened up. He had caught the deep gaze of the
other upon him, and was slightly ashamed Brantfeld
took the garments and crozier into his own hands.
Marvellously indeed did the vestment of cloth of silver,
bordered and crossed with sapphires, become the deli
cate face and figure of Reginald of Canterbury ; and if
there were some incongruity between the spun gold of

76 2!ncanoni?et)

his fair hair and the severity of the mitre which sur
mounted it, why, there was but one in all that company
to perceive it; otherwise it but heightened the pictu-
resqueness of the unusual scene. Into his left iiand the
youth received the staff, consecrated by the long usage
of Thomas Becket, whom some people still call " saint."
Then, in a voice which sounded little like his own, he
repeated after Brantfeld the words by which he bound
himself sacredly to perform all those duties of the office
which thereby he received unto himself. It took but a
short time. Reginald, Archbishop of Canterbury, stood
alone for a few moments before the chair, — in silent
communion with his God.

Brantfeld finally ventured to break the silence, — not
before the young man's eyes had begun to wander.

" Pardon, Lord Archbishop," he said, lingering a
little over the title, " time presses. As thou knowest,
there is the benediction, and then still another oath that
must be ta'en."

Reginald looked up with an attempt at abstraction.
The attempt was very near to being a failure, for even
Elias the blind jerked his head with some impatience
before the melodious reply : " The benediction ! I had
forgot ! " He paused, and looked slowly about. His fair
face was very gentle, as, indeed, it always was. When
he spoke, his few words caused a little sensation among
the brethren.

" Anthony Fitz-Hubert, thou shalt pronounce over me
the sacred words. Of all here thou seemest to me most
fitted to consecrate me in my new estate. Thou canst
not surely refuse me my first wish."

It was coals of fire for Anthony's scorn. Every monk
there was surprised, and some were none too well pleased
by the words. Yet none, least of all Brantfeld himself,
whose right it was to finish the ceremony which he had
begun, would have ventured to object to the Arch
bishop's first request. All eyes were fixed upon Fitz-

iRegfnalii 77

Hubert's face, over which a deep red flush was slowly
spreading. He did not, as Alexander had expected,
refuse the behest. With some reluctance he approached
the mitred one, who once more had sunk to his knees.
Then, raising one hand above the young head, there
came from his lips, in the sonorous voice to which no
other in all England was comparable, the measured
Latin words whose dignity of sound and meaning formed
a fitting close to this strange midnight ceremony.

Reginald himself showed some natural feeling as he
rose to his feet with a deep sigh. And, as Anthony fell
quietly back again into his place, Brantfeld once more
came forward with a new vigor in his manner, and
began to speak in rapid and distinct tones.

" Time presses, brethren. There remains but one
thing to be done, but that thing must be done well.
We, monks of the ancient chapter of the cathedral of
Canterbury, have here to-night availed ourselves of our
ancient and holy privilege, and have elected and conse
crated Reginald, our sub-prior, as Archbishop of Can
terbury. That we have done this thing in an unwonted
manner, ye wot well. That the deed hath taken place
with cognizance of neither King nor Pope, albeit we are
loyal subjects of them both, should assuredly be reason
sufficient for all to perceive the gravity of the measure,
and the necessity on all parts for absolute silence con
cerning it, until the Pope be duly apprised of our action.
For this reason I conjure you, and especially Reginald
and those four attendants who are to depart hence with
him to-night, to follow me in all earnestness in the tak
ing of a most solemn oath of secrecy concerning the
election that hath now taken place here, in the sight of
God alone."

Elias paused and scanned each face before him pene
tratingly. Earnest acquiescence was written in each ;
but for the understanding it 'was less easy to judge.
With stern impressiveness Elias himself then pronounced

78

the oath, which was as binding a one as words could
make it. Every monk repeated it after him. Last of
all it was taken by the Archbishop and the four who
were to accompany him on his way to Rome.

The election was at an end. In the streets of Canter
bury town the watchman, swinging his lantern rhyth
mically to and fro as he walked, had long since cried
out the midnight hour, together with the cheerful news
that all was well. Ah ! All was not well in Canterbury
that night ! And England and Europe were soon to
find it out. For, in the great cathedral, thirty heedless
monks had just accomplished the ruin of a reign, and
pronounced an everlasting stigma on the fair fame of a
good king.

The brethren formed into the recessional. The Arch
bishop, his robes glittering brilliantly in the luminous
twilight, came last. Anthony and Alexander remained
in the church after the rest to extinguish the candles,
which had burned but half-way down in the short
period. Some of the smaller ones they left to flicker
on in their puny glory until they should flare up once,
pitifully, and then go out into the great darkness, as do
men's souls when their little hour here is over.

When Fitz-Hubert and his companion re-entered the
vestry, twenty only of the monks were there. The
others, Brantfeld, Reginald, and six brethren had retired
to the day-room of the little monastery, where the Arch
bishop and his followers were to make ready for their
departure.

Those who were left to wait in the vestry stood round
the room, talking fitfully, or moving about. Anthony
was alone among them. He remained at one end of
the place, close beside that small barred door which led
out into a narrow street of the city. The light from a
cresset lantern on the wall fell athwart his pallid face,
changed, almost as to feature, from that of the young
courtier of Windsor. The beams threw into sharp

IRcginalD 79

relief all its angles, bringing out with bold shadow and
high-light the aquiline nose, and long sweep of the
brows beneath which his eyes glittered brilliantly in
their hollows. His black locks, now long unused to
the curling liquids and perfumes which he had once
so strongly affected, clung straight and close about his
well-shaped head and the disfiguring tonsure. It
was a handsome head still, but rather startling in its
beauty now; a countenance that many would turn from
hastily; that some would look back upon again, and
yet again; and that would draw a rare few, the
choicest among souls, to confidence and fast friend
ship.

Anthony seemed not to mind his solitude. Indeed,
he was too well accustomed to it to wish for anything
else. He stood looking idly toward a group of young
ascetics who were speaking in restrained voices about
some deep matter of the Church. Not one of these
would have dared an attempt to draw him into their
converse, and, had one made such a venture, he would
have been coldly repulsed. For Anthony's youth had
been so different from this that only utter change in his
very attitude of mind made living now even endurable.
At twenty-five his manner was that of a middle-aged
man, and he was regarded as being something far
beyond that in power of thought.

Presently Brantfeld made his appearance from the
passage that led into the rooms of the convent. He
stalked into the vestry, a heavy frown marking his
rugged forehead. Upon his entrance the monks looked
up quickly, and an immediate silence ensued. It was
straight to Anthony that the prior went, and Anthony
he addressed in words too carefully whispered to be
heard. Only the wrath in his manner gave a clue to
what he was saying. All waited eagerly for Anthony's
reply, which, when given, was straightforwardly indiffer
ent. Anthony's brow had gone up slightly, his lip

8o 2Jncanom?eti

curled in scornful amusement; his shoulders shrugged
once involuntarily.

" In good sooth, Brantfeld, I am not my Lord Arch
bishop's mentor. Methinks his garb will have but
little power to conceal his soul."

With a look of wrath for the impudence, Elias turned
sharply away, and busied himself in unfastening the
bolts of the outer door. What he had said to Anthony,
or at least its purport, was very soon made apparent.

There was a sound of voices raised in unseasonable
jocularity. Footsteps and the light jangle of a chain
came from the passage. Simultaneously, without the
door which led to the street, and which the prior had
unfastened, was heard the faint clack of horses' hoofs on
stone. Then, amid a silence of utter amazement from
the brethren, with a fluttering swish from his silken
cloak, the Archbishop entered the vestry. He was a
monk no longer. His dress was a cross between that
of a knight and a prelate of high office. His long,
black sleeveless tunic bore indeed some likeness to a
priest's cassock ; but certainly his sleeves of bright
blue, the chain about his neck, and the long silken
cloak, large enough to cover his entire body, had not
much of the clergy about them ; while his oddly shaped
hat seemed to have been designed for the purpose of
concealing his tonsure. He looked singularly hand
some in the changed garb. His manner, as he strode
into the room, a half-smile from some past jest lingering
in his eyes, was half defiant, half consciously curious.
Behind him, shamefaced and hesitating in their sorry
sackcloth, came the four who were to follow him upon
his toilsome journey to Rome. Their Benedictine cowls
and scapulars were in no wise new. There was some
thing of a discrepancy between my Lord Archbishop
and my Lord Archbishop's retinue. Reginald himself
knew this. It was without warmth but also without
ostentation that he finally spoke.

81

"The horses, good brethren, — they are ready?"

" They stand without," said Alexander at length, see
ing that no one else gave any sign of answering.

The common monks stared open-mouthed at their
metamorphosed sub-prior. Brantfeld was too angry
and too anxious to open his lips. Anthony, fearing to
show unwise contempt and unwarranted amusement, had
turned his back.

" We must needs depart, then," said Reginald, after a
short contemplation of his reception. He saw that their
immediate going would be politic. " Nunc Deus te bene-
dicito, fratres. Vale."

Thus curtly he would have left them there, but Brant
feld, with a strong effort at self-control, peremptorily
stopped him. " You have the writs and testamentary
documents for his Holiness?"

" Certes. Thou gavest them to me thyself. All is in
order for the departure."

" Then in the name of the Father, depart. But re
member thine oath, Reginald of Canterbury ! "

In his deep earnestness, Brantfeld had for the moment,
forgotten the reverence due to the Archbishop. Regi
nald had the grace to overlook the breach.

" At mine own peril will I break it. — Now, good
brethren."

There were a few hurried farewells among the monks,
Latin and English phrases freely mingled, and then the
door leading into the street was opened wide. By the dim
light of the lantern that hung within the vestry, the
five young men mounted the horses which were to carry
them to Dover. It was well that they had no inkling of
the steeds which were doomed to bear them from the
Eternal City, — homeward. A touch of the spur to
each flank, a leap of the heart in each breast, the sharp
sounds of the hoofs upon stone, a dying echo, — and
the five had travelled on to mingle with the black en
gulfing shadow of the beyond. They were gone. The

6

82

night's work had passed beyond cloistered hands. It
was Brantfeld who closed and barred the heavy door
behind them. The hour of matins was drawing near.
One by one, the weary monks crept half reluctantly
away to snatch an hour's sleep ere the round of prayer
should again begin. Anthony alone lingered still in his
place beside that closed door, oblivious alike to sight
and sound, lost in the depths of his own thoughts.
Bitter thoughts they were, and dreamily vague; such
thoughts as fever and nightmare bring to us. He had
just seen one pass from agony into freedom, from nonen
tity to place. None the less relentlessly did all the long-
fought misery sweep over him again, burying him be
neath waves so vast that he felt not the eyes that were
on him, and only in instinctive consciousness was aware
that Alexander's hand was laid upon his arm in silent
sympathy, that the cresset in the vestry had been extin
guished, and that from the blackness of the cathedral
beyond came the low sound of Elias Brantfeld's prayers,
sent up in a premature fear of the consequences of that
strange night's work, and the folly of which Reginald of
Canterbury had been king.

CHAPTER V

JOHN'S MESSENGERS

AGAIN it was summer time, of the year 1207; July,
and the fourteenth day of the month. It had
been a mellow evening, and by eight o'clock
day had left the western sky and night was gliding
delicately through the eastern portals. The monks of
Canterbury chapter were at collation, and a dim candle
or so burned upon the two tables in the tiny refectory.
There were seats here for thirty only, for guests in the
chapter were few. Even so several spaces on the rough
benches were unoccupied ; and notable among them
was that in which Elias Brantfeld had been wont to sit.
Alexander, sub-prior now, and in later years to fill the
newly appointed position of abbot here, watched over
the etiquette of the table, which to-night was being
none too rigidly observed. The reader's desk, standing
at one end of the room, was empty. Anthony, whose
beautiful voice, aptitude for expression, and familiarity
with those Latin manuscripts which were accustomed to
be listened to during meals, rendered him most fit to
occupy the dignified but somewhat thankless position
of reader, was seated to-night at one end of the second
table, tranquilly partaking of his oaten cakes and mead,
and joining now and again in the fitfully animated con
versation that flickered about the little company.

" T is many months now since Brantfeld sent news
of the doings at Rome. Methinks had he chosen to
apprise us more fully of those matters which assuredly
concern us all, he had more excellently fulfilled his
mission."

84

A little murmur of concurrence followed this obser
vation, but it was quickly silenced by the retort from
another, nicknamed, in the chapter, the Sceptic.

" Say you so? And would a thousand missives from
Elias have hindered Innocent from having his way with
us? Think you that the prior could have prevented
excommunication had he refused to obey the command?
Would they at our bidding have done away with the
impostor, Langton —

" Or put De Gray in his rightful place?" interrupted
another, with a biting sneer.

4< Enough of De Gray," cried the first, angrily.
" Reginald was our choice, and, oath or none, should
sit to-day in the Archbishop's chair."

" Ay, Reginald ! Brantfeld's baby-faced tool ! " cried
a third, whose memory of the little sub-prior's fascina
tion had grown vague. " A child, who thought to
break our oath as he would an earthen cup. Verily a
right noble Archbishop would he have made ! "

"A better than Langton," muttered some one.

" True — true. Reginald is an Englishman at least,
and would ne'er fly to the arms of Philip of France, as
a babe to its mother's kirtle when the stag frightened
it."

" Stephen Langton is no coward," remarked Anthony,
quietly.

Every monk there, even Alexander himself, looked
up in amazement. The surprise rapidly turned to anger
as Anthony met the looks indifferently, and calmly
refilled his beaker.

" We had not guessed that we had a partisan of the
traitor among us ! " cried some one at last, voicing the
thoughts of his fellows.

" I am no partisan of Langton's," was the reply.
" I regard him even as you do, as an intruder. But
again I say that no coward would have accepted his
post."

85

" Ay — what with the anger of baron, bishop, and
king against him," responded Alexander in a soothing
tone of meditation.

" King and baron — yes. The Barons are always
ready to oppose something, methinks it matters little
what. And the King is devoted to Norwich. But for
the other Bishops — an I misdoubt me not, 'they are
much inclined to France."

" Not Winchester, assuredly. Peter de Rupibus is
hand and glove with King John."

" Ay, and De Cornhill of Coventry, and Henry of
Dublin, and Walter of Worcester — as well as De Gray."

" Perchance those are. But they are none of the
most powerful. London, Ely, Hereford, Lincoln and
Bath are not too friendly with their liege."

" Traitors all."

" And of two faces."

" One of which turneth ever a nod to the King, and
the other a love-look to the Pope."

There was a round of smiles at this last sally of
Alexander's and the discussion bid fair to be ended with
unusual good-feeling. But presently Brother Thomas,
a sour-faced, thoughtful, and attenuated monk, revived
the old strain.

" The King, brethren, — you speak of him lightly.
Yet mark me, John is not lightly to be esteemed by us.
I have heard speech of late in sundry places which it
would seem must needs be considered gravely. And
truly it is not unnatural that the King should have a
bitter feeling for us who, overthrowing our own partisan,
asked that he provide us with a candidate for the Arch
bishopric. This most gladly he did, and none shall say
that John de Gray was not a worthy man for the place.
Now, says the King, we have turned from him when he
needed us, running like cringing courtiers over to the
Pope, who is master of us all. He hath reviled us most
bitterly, 't is said, for having had aught to do with the

86

Frenchman, doubtless knowing naught of how we have
been harried on every side."

There was a common and indifferent assent to this
idea. Fear of a king was not a thing generally instilled
into the mind of the Catholic celibate. There were
fears enough and to spare without that. Alexander
answered for all when he said : —

" Yea, 'tis sooth what thou sayest, Thomas. But
should we fear the King? Assuredly, knowing the
spirit of his Holiness as do we all, 't is safe to say that
John would dare do little in opposition to such a
will."

At this, Anthony laughed. " Hast ever seen the
King?" he asked.

" Thou knowest I have not."

" Then do not say what King John will dare or not
dare to do. None in the world knows his mind from
day to day, save perhaps only Isabella of Angouleme."

" And his shadow, Hubert de Burgh. But how
shouldst thou know aught of the King's temper,
Anthony? " inquired a monk not long of the chapter.

" How knows he the King? Verily he knoweth more
of Kings and courts than ever of monasteries, Andrew,
having been brought up by his father, and residing for
many years at the court of Windsor."

Alexander's answer was as quietly matter-of-fact as
possible. He knew that the subject was eminently dis
tasteful to Anthony ; but nevertheless Brother Andrew
was in no way to be put off from his curiosity.

"Who is thy father, Anthony? "

Anthony turned bloodless and half rose from the
table, a peculiar sparkle creeping into his eyes. His
lips parted, but he did not speak. Brother Thomas
suddenly came to the rescue, calling out loudly: —

"The fruits, Master Hebdomadary ! Thinkest that
we have not had our fill of these tough cakes?
Wouldst have us sitting here till matins, good fool?

87

Come, brethren — for want of a better toast — let us
drink a tankard of Burgundy for the success of Brant-
feld in Rome ! "

Anthony sent a grateful glance for the unwonted
and tactful kindliness of Thomas, but that brother
was already drinking, and evidently wanted no thanks
for his effort. So with the entrance of rarer wines and
the simple dessert with which collation was concluded,
the conversation turned back to monastic common
places and stories, in which every thought of dicta
torial pope, tempestuous king and rebellious bishop was
completely banished.

The prolonged meal was nearly at an ^nd. Already
the Gratias Deo was on Alexander's lips. The faint
light which still glimmered in through a western win
dow had long since lost all sunset ruddiness and was
little more than a pale shadow. The candles, their
rival being gone, blazed higher now in merry fitful-
ness, delighting to play in grotesque imagery over
the monkish faces round about. Suddenly the usual
vast stillness was broken. Far in the distance, indeed,
from the north transept of the church, might be dis
tinguished the sound of footsteps; heavy steps they
were, and stout of tread, — those of men who dwelt in
the world, and had never been cramped between walls
of stone. Into the vestry they came, and then, after a
second's halt, entered the passage leading straight to
the refectory. Not a monk in the room stirred. None
even thought to glance at another. There was the
sound of arms clashing on stone, the deep bass mur
mur of a word or two, and then, without the least
attempt at bluster, four armed knights came quietly
in. Two of these men were known to Alexander; all
of them to Anthony. They were Henry de Cornhill,
sheriff of Kent; Theoricus le Vineter, of Canterbury
Castle ; and two knights of the King's own company :
William Briwere, sheriff of Somerset, and Robert

de Neville, brother of Hugo, head forester of the
realm.

Upon the very threshold of the refectory the intrud
ers halted. At once Alexander, as the only official of
the chapter present, hastily rose, uncertain whether
his greeting should be as to guests, or whether to
wait till they might make known the object of their
coming. Therefore, once upon his feet, he stood
silent and motionless. The knights themselves were
deliberating. There was a pause, short and uncom
fortable. Anthony, from where he sat in shadow at
the end of the table, watched the dull, questioning
faces about him with growing surprise. How should
they all be so ignorant? He himself had a very clear
idea of the meaning of this visit. It was the final
issue of certain matters over which he had spent
much time in meditating. But it was evident at once
that not a monk present had an inkling of the im
port of the affair. Henry de Cornhill, Theoricus le
Vineter, William Briwere — certainly to one who knew
them and their relation to the court, such an advent
now must mean much.

Perhaps De Cornhill had hoped and expected that
there would be some one there whose quick wit or
ready fear would make his task easier. But no one
moved. Anthony would not for all the world have
made himself conspicuous — now. Thus the sheriff
perceived that it behooved him to make known his
errand at once. Advancing, then, a step or two be
fore his companions, and clearing his throat with diffi
culty, he took from his broad belt a parchment, from
which hung a great, brown-red seal, stamped with the
royal arms. From this he appeared to read. In
reality he knew by heart the short message that the
parchment contained. With his deep voice somewhat
softened to suit the hour and the place, he spoke these
words : —

89

" In the King's name we command you, as traitors,
to quit the realm ; or, in a moment, we will set fire to
these walls and burn you with the convent." 1

There was a moment of profound stillness. Then
Alexander, who, just as De Cornhill spoke, had started
to move toward him, lurched unsteadily back against
the table, where he seemed to support himself with
difficulty. The monks rose and drew together in a
blindly frightened throng, making a fluttering noise
among themselves with cries, prayers, and appeals to
God and the saints. De Cornhill, seeing their child
like behavior, stood looking on undecidedly, while his
companions commented on the scene. Certainly their
demeanor was anything but ferocious.

No order came from the little chaos. Perceiving
this, Anthony at last rose from the place whence he
had, up to this moment, not stirred, and advancing
into the room forced his way among the mass of
shrill-voiced brethren, and drew them about him in a
little band. Finally, his very presence having quieted
them, he spoke, in his customary low and mellow
voice.

" Brethren, ye have heard the King's message, and
must know that it were useless to meditate disobedience
to his command. An we depart not at once, peaceably,
we shall be driven to it, as ye have heard, by fire.
Therefore, seeing that there is but little time to spare,
it would be well to ascend at once to the dormitories,
where we may collect what possessions it behooves us
to take with us in our flight. Then, I doubt not, the
neighboring monastery of Augustine will not refuse to
receive us in charity for the night, seeing that there is
room for all. After that we should leave betimes for
some seaport, whence to take ship for France or Flan
ders as soon as may be. Ye see, brethren, that tears

1 Barrington, History of Reigns of Henry II., Richard I., and John
of England, p. 484. (Extracted from the Tower Rolls.)

90

and prayers have no place here. The King, being
wroth with us, hath sent forth his decree. There is
naught for us but to do his bidding. Come — let us
ascend."

The brothers had listened to him attentively, and at
once perceived the reason in his speech. There were
no murmurs as they began moving slowly toward the
door, forming, out of inevitable habit, into the regular
recessional line.

Meantime Alexander, having recovered himself, had
for some moments been speaking with De Cornhill and
his followers. In their parley they had decided upon
the same course as that advised by Anthony. So,
seeing the monks quieted, their sub-prior stepped for
ward and addressed them shortly, in a speech almost
the counterpart of his friend's. The monks listened to
this also in passive obedience. Simple and patient
under wearisome outward forms as their training had
made them, it was utterly indifferent to them how often
the same thing should be repeated. When Alexander
had finished they bowed their heads slowly, with no sign
of dissatisfaction, and had begun to move on, when De
Neville, who had been peering about the room in evident
search for something, advanced to the sheriff's side.

" Is the monk Anthony, son of Hubert Walter, once
Archbishop of Canterbury, in this room? "

The train of monks stopped short, and Brother An
drew, whose question was answered, pricked up his
ears. Anthony, who had all this time kept himself
purposely in shadow, and had been talking with Alex
ander, came slowly forward.

" I am here, Robert de Neville," he answered.

" Ah ! Welcome indeed, Anthony, old friend ! T is
right good to see you once again."

All four of the knights pressed about him, anxious to
take his hand. Anthony's head dropped low, and his
breath came in quick gasps.

91

"You are to come with us to the castle," said Le
Vineter at once. " De Burgh awaits you there. The
King has some plan for you."

The monk's dark eyes kindled, but he spoke with
great difficulty, scarcely daring to trust his voice.
"Some plan — for me?"

De Cornhill laid a kindly hand upon his shoulder,
while he said aloud to the monks: -

" Pass on, good brethren. Ye shall have a quarter
candle's length of time to gather up your goods. We
will await you at the vestry door. See that ye' do not
linger, else I fear me that a sterner lesson of punctuality
must needs be taught you."

The brethren, seeming to appreciate this mild-toned
threat, hurried away, the Miserere this time not upon
their tongues but in their hearts. So at last Anthony
and his friends of old stood alone together in the
dimly flaring candle-light, beside the disordered
tables.

" Thou saidst that De Burgh awaited me? " asked the
monk, turning to De Neville. He was growing quickly
accustomed to this dream.

" Ay, De Burgh awaits you," interrupted Cornhill,
turning -on his heel after a survey of the room; " and
thou hadst best follow Theoricus here to the castle,
taking with you a couple of the men-at-arms who stand
without. Briwere, Neville, and I will see these children
away. They promise no difficulty. Thou hadst best be
off at once. Hast aught that you would wish to take
with you? "

"Ay, another cowl, hood, and scapulary, together
with thy rosary, and perchance a wimple or two for a
lady, eh, Anthony?" cried Briwere, in ill-timed mirth.
But Anthony's look silenced him.

" I will join my Lord le Vineter at the cathedral door
as soon as I have gathered up a few manuscripts and
some needed garments for the night."

92 2incanom?eD

"Deep in thy dialectic, Doctor?"

Anthony smiled forcedly, then departed down the
passage and rapidly mounted the narrow stairs that
led upward to his cell.

The dormitories were in a tumult. Anthony was not
once accosted as he made his way among the piles of
clothing, books, papers, crucifixes, cups, linen, and
various strange objects long hidden away, which had
now been pulled distractedly about the hallway out
side the cells. The need of a leading spirit to bring
order tx> all this reckless confusion was very apparent,
but in vain did Anthony look about for Alexander,
who, in point of fact, was alone in the small treasure-
house of the monastery on the floor below, packing
securely away certain objects which must not leave
England with him.

Anthony returned through the corridor with his small
bundle, looking neither to the right nor to the left. He
was marvelling over the strange feeling that all this petty
turbulence was his concern no longer. Descending to
the lower floor by a little hidden stairway which led into
the chapter-house, he crossed this room and reached the
door of the treasury. Here he paused, gravely re
garding the scene before him. Alexander was alone in
the middle of the room, kneeling over a great coffer, in
which lay the jewelled robe, mitre, and sacred staff,
which for nearly a century had been kept only for the
holy use of newly consecrated archbishops. They were
the same which Reginald had borne on that ill-fated
night now two years agone. The monk's emaciated
body lay half upon the floor, half upon the coffer, and
his lips were moving convulsively in prayer. Anthony
came quietly forward.

" Fare thee well, Alexander," he said, holding out his
hand.

Alexander looked up, then sprang quickly to his feet.
" Antoni ! Prater meus ! Vale ! vale ! et corpus Domini

93

nostri ti custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam ; et
salutare da mihi ! "

" Pax tecum et cum spiritu tuo, et nunc et semper,
frater. Vale ! "

No other words were spoken, for in that moment the
hearts of both were too full for speech. Anthony's eyes
were very gentle as for the last time he looked into the
other's face ; but Alexander, more of a monk than his
brother, was not ashamed of the bitter brightness which
dimmed his own brown orbs. And thus they passed out of
each other's lives. For though Alexander in later years
ruled as abbot over these same brethren, in this very
spot, Anthony was not of their number, having by that
time been laid in peace beneath the meadow-turf, in a
certain sunny vale.

Fifty minutes after he had left the refectory, Anthony,
together with Theoricus le Vineter, stood upon the draw
bridge of Canterbury Castle. The lord of that strong
hold called out in a strident voice the password for the
night, and hastily the iron-bound door was thrown open
before them. Le Vineter, giving the two horses into
the care of a groom, strode into his mansion with the
monk by his side. Together they passed through the
great hall where sat a score of drowsy henchmen about
a table, long since emptied of its food, and now with but
little wine left within the great tankards and leather
jacks that strewed the board. From there the two en
tered a smaller banqueting-hall, then moved along a
corridor -with many openings on either side, lighted by
torches stuck into brackets on the walls, and so finally
through an anteroom into an apartment in which sat a
solitary man before a table, whereon stood a lightly
tasted meal. His chair was pushed back a little from
the oaken stand, and he was playing idly with the heads
of two great dogs who lay in yawning content at his
side. As his host entered, Hubert de Burgh, truest
friend and greatest favorite of the King, arose.

94 2Jncanoni?eD

" Ha, Theoricus ! Hast brought me one of thy re
bellious monks as hostage or specimen curiosity ? "

Le Vineter, who was a heavy fellow, and always ill at
ease with the spirit of jest, hesitated for a moment in his
answer, when from behind came a lively reply to De
Burgh's laughing question, —

" Nay, my lord, no hostage, but one of the rebellious
monks indeed, who has come to bring charge against
thee of lordly forgetfulness of thine ancient infant play
fellow. Nay now, I 'd swear thou 'st quite forgot a
certain time of bear-baiting at Hurstmonceux — "

"Anthony! My dear boy! My friend! Enough,
enough. Nay, now, my knowledge of these monkish
houses was too slight for me to guess whether thou wert
of this foolish chapter or in the great Augustinian
monastery across the way. Natheless I bade Theo
ricus look you out and bring you hither. The King
hath a mission for thee. Truly mine eyes rejoice at
sight of thee once more. By'r Lady, thou 'rt near to
being Hubert Walter's double ! "

Such was the unaffected greeting rendered to the
monk by the most graceful courtier, loyal statesman,
and perfect knight of his day; who managed, during
the most part of his sixty-three years of life, to maintain
the highest standing of esteem and love throughout
three reigns ; and at the same time so always to pre
serve his own self-respect that when the time of his
pitiful fall did come, that fall was only in the eyes of an
immediate generation, his memory having come down
to us as he in his own heart bequeathed it, stainless in
honor, innocent of all imputed guilt.

In the meantime Le Vineter, a tactful host at least,
had left the two friends alone in De Burgh's room,
whither presently was sent a lackey with refreshment
for Anthony, and the word that when he and Hubert
had finished their converse, the monk should be shown
to an apartment which should be his as long as he chose

95

to remain a guest in the castle. This welcome, as
Anthony knew, was insured by the greeting which had
proved De Burgh an earnest friend of his.

The monk, who had so recently finished collation at
the convent, did not partake very heavily of this repast,
although it was infinitely more to his taste than the
coarse fare to which he had so long been accustomed.
De Burgh waited, watching him with pleasant eyes, till
he laid down his dagger and washed his hands in a
small dish of water set for the purpose, and which was
fragrant from recent contact with the courtier's strongly
perfumed fingers. Then, finally, De Burgh rose and
crossed the room to a large and roughly-carved desk,
before which he seated himself comfortably, motioning
Anthony to come nearer.

" Sit you there, Anthony, where I have some light on
thy pallid face. I am easier where I have somewhat to
rest mine elbows on. And now we shall talk as we
will — eh?"

" Indeed, my lord, you are not changed."

" Nay, — not ' my lord,' Sir Monk. Hast forgot that
the last time I had speech with thee — 't was in the ter
race at Windsor — thou didst call me ' Hubert ' ? That
name likes me better from thy lips than all the lords
and titles."

*' I wanted in respect then. I crave pardon for it,"
responded the monk, not knowing quite what he was
saying, for his heart was full.

" Come, Anthony, I shall be wroth with you presently,
which would be sore unwise, since in the future we are
to see much of one another."

"Much of thee in the future, Hubert?" Anthony's
eyes grew eager. "Tell me, hath the King — or per
chance the Pope — deemed that at last I have finished
my work and the bastard's punishment? Is there hope
that I may be freed from monkery?"

" Hush, Anthony." Hubert's face was sad now, and

96 2Jncanom?et)

his eyes were very gentle as he saw the light fade from
the monk's face. The thought had been only a mo
ment's weakness. The dark head sank a little.

" Hush, Anthony. Thy great father's last behest con
cerning thee will be fulfilled. Thou hast ta'en the
vows. By them must thou abide. Believe me, it
racks my heart to see thy pain. But come, here is my
command for thee. This it is. Thou knowest of course
of the famous old Abbey of Glastonbury? "

"In Somerset; near to Wells."

" Ay. 'Tis there that henceforth thou art to reside."

" Glastonbury I Its estate is no peaceful one, I have
heard."

" Most true. And 't is for that very reason that the
King, knowing you to be loyal and true to him, would
have you there. Through me 'twill be a duty of yours
to keep him apprised of the continuance of that quarrel
of which anon you will surely learn enow."

"Ay. Part of it already I know. Tis Jocelyn of
Bath who clamors for the Glastonbury lands, is't not?"

" Yes, Jocelyn, — curse him I I tell thee the King
has more to fear from these triple-faced bishops and
their plots, than from pope and baron put together.
This Jocelyn is an eel who can play about your body
till you are well-nigh crazed with his endless embraces,
and when you make attempt to seize him, that you may
fling him from you, suddenly he glides sleekly off and
disappears within a neighboring pond, wherein you are
afraid to bathe lest he again encircle you."

" So. — And Glastonbury hath no abbot? "

" The last was poisoned at Rome, 't is said, by
Jocelyn's rival emissary."

" A pretty tale. And who now rules the monastery? "

" None in reality, methinks. The prior, Harold, holds
the abbot's chair and the Pope's letter of authority."

Anthony shrugged his shoulders, and looked none too
well pleased. " T is a prospect that would tempt me

97

not. Revelry in monasteries is a loathsome thing. Of
what service shall I be to King John in such a place? "

" Much. You are still the King's true servant?".

Anthony bowed in silence before the piercing look
which accompanied the words.

" That is well. The King has none too many true
friends left to him. I fear me lest this quarrel with the
Pope will be his undoing in the end."

"Justice and reason are alike on the side of the
King," cried Fitz-Hubert, hotly.

De Burgh smiled, but his eyes were sad. " His
Holiness is a kind of god, you know. But now to hurry
matters. This man Stephen Langton has numberless
partisans among monks and priests in England. Be
sides others there are five bishops who are sworn to
him, — with them Jocelyn of Bath; whiles, 'tis said,
the hottest traitor of them all. None the less is he
playing continuously with the King's tolerance. Num
berless are the promises towards the royal treasury which
he has made, if only he can gain the King to his par
tisanship in this cause of Glastonbury. I know that his
desire is to unite the fat lands of Glastonbury with the
sees of Bath and Wells. The monks are eager for their
independence, but are unworldly folk, who know not the
tricks of courtiers. Therefore the King's Grace would
have you there, upon the spot, to note whate 'er you may
of the quips and turns of this most wary prelate. John
is already nigh distraught with the swirl of deceit about
him."

" A prying ofHce for me. One that I like not much
the thought of, my Lord de Burgh."

" Then, Anthony, I must give to thee the King's
second mission, and we shall see if the romance within
thy nature shall not this time yield the proposition.
First, I know that from the Pope thou hast special
friar's orders, and thou must bear in mind that this
mission that I give you is with his seal of sanction.

7

" Twenty miles from Glastonbury — three hours easy
ride — stands Bristol town. On the south side of the
city is Bristol Castle, a rare strong fortress, and built
by Robert of Gloucester. Within this castle, O monk
errant, is imprisoned a maiden princess, so beautifully
fair that she hath been called the world over ' Pearl of
Brittany.' Thou 'st heard of her — Eleanor, sister of
Arthur, the King's rebellious little nephew? "

" Ay. I have heard of her."

" Then come, man ! Bring back the gleam into those
eyes of thine ! In Bristol Castle lies the fairest princess
in all Europe, and thou art to become her padre con-
fessore ! Now assuredly this will tempt thee to a
journey towards the West?"

11 1 the confessor of a princess royal ! Nay, De Burgh !
Women no longer may be aught to me. That must be
no place of mine."

" Reflect, stubborn one. His Holiness himself, at the
King's request, has made thine appointment. 'Twill
need a brave excuse to escape that. Why, friend, I
understand not thy temper ! 'T is passing strange for
a monk, and withal, one so young as thou." The irri
tation in De Burgh's tone was palpable.

" The Pope ! " Anthony rose suddenly from his
stool and paced the length of the room in strong agi
tation. De Burgh watched him in silence, unable to
guess the thoughts that were swinging through the
monk's over-charged brain. At length the young man
stopped still at a little distance from the courtier, and
his eyes were no longer dull. On the contrary, his face
gleamed with the light of some emotion incomprehen
sible to the other.

" I obey the command of his Holiness," he said, in
a low, vibrant voice ; " to-morrow I set out for Glaston
bury. Now let me hear more of the King's wishes,
that I may know to what I depart."

Hubert de Burgh smiled contemplatively, and deli-

99

cately smoothed his hose. His good-humor had re
turned to him. " Well spoken, Anthony, and decided
with all thine olden-time surety and quickness. Now
shalt thou see certain papers and learn more of Glaston-
bury and Bristol."

" Ay, but let me first learn how 't is that I am to see
thee and bear thee word for John. Art not always
with some portion of the court? "

De Burgh laughed. " A simple question from thee,
Anthony. Always with the court? Nay — am I with'
it now, or likely to be, for more than a day within the
next month? Ah! Sir Monk! England is my realm,
and England's King — God rest him ! — my second
self. This that thou seest of me to-night cares for my
subjects from Northumbria (and the deuce take the
Lion !) to Hants. The other self — But I '11 e'en an
swer thy question now. Thou hast heard of Dunster,
perchance? "

" Nay."

" Dunster Castle lies in Somerset, two days' ride from
Bristol. 'T is the ancient house of the De Mohuns, —
a hot-blooded race. Reginald, the present Baron, is
but a boy, fourteen years of age. Thus to me hath
the King entrusted the castle, as warden and guardian
of the young noble. Some days of each month I am
accustomed to spend there, and 't is in stopping at Wells
or Bristol, on my way to and from that place, that thou
mayest see me."

" That is well. And De Briwere is sheriff of Somer
set, is he not? "

" Sheriff, and lord of as stout a fortress as man
can build. Bridgewater is his castle — scarce yet
completed."

" A goodly neighborhood of King's men. — And now,
prythee, more of Glastonbury and Bristol Castle."

"Well and good. A something more of interest than
at first shows in thine eyes, Anthony. — In truth just

ioo 2Jncanoni?eti

at present Bristol Castle holds an historic company.
Within its sound keep — in most rarely barred apart
ments, lies, with his little suite, my Lord Count Hugh
de la Marche, of —

"Ah! Isabella's — "

" The Queen's former guardian and friend. Since
the last insurrection in Poictou they have been in John's
keeping. Those rebels are better dealt with without
their leader. But thou, Anthony, while visiting Bristol
Castle in thy priestly office, wilt be at their service like
wise, should their well-worn souls need attention. Per
chance 't will interest thee to make acquaintance with
them."

"Yes."

There was a slight pause. Then Anthony leaned
forward a little and an impulsive question leaped from
his lips : —

" Hubert — what of the Princess Eleanor's brother —
Arthur Fitz-Geoffrey ? "

De Burgh returned the look calmly. " So thou too
hast heard the villainous lie circulated by John's ene
mies? To think that such things penetrate even to the
cloister ! The insolent boy is housed in the castle at
Rouen, only too courteously attended, till the day
when, by good fortune, he shall fall out of love with
Philip of France and accept the long-proffered friend
ship of his uncle. — Faugh! A petty child, spoilt by
all who know him, because of his yellow hair and blue
eyes. I saw him, and tried to force some reason into
his headstrong mind, two months and more "agone.
'T was of no use. Still loudly he clamors for ' My
kingdom, De Burgh ! My lawful possession ! ' Poor
fool! Imagine England to-day ruled by the child.
'T would be something worse than your Reginald as
Archbishop of Canterbury, Anthony."

With a quick smile of relief the monk rose up. " I
praise God, Hubert, that the King hath been maligned."

101

" An unkind gratitude, Sir Monk. I would that John's
slanderers lay with their haloed Arthur, every man of
them, deep in the keep of Rouen Castle ! "

Anthony held out his hand to his friend.

"Till to-morrow morning, Anthony. I shall see thee
ere thou leave for Glastonbury. Then also will I give to
you those papers which shall admit you to the princess,
as well as a map of the road which you had best trav
erse on your way. 'T is no short journey to the other
side of England ! "

" I thank thee, my lord. I would have asked thy
advice as to my road. Good-night, and gentle rest to
thee."

So, with a grave bow, the monk left the apartment to
seek his own bed, leaving the courtier standing in his
little ante-room, looking after him, lost in thought.
There was still abstraction in his manner when, cross
ing to the second entrance of the chamber, De Burgh
entered that wherein stood his royally hung couch.
The door to this he closed, while half murmuring a
vague sentence to himself.

"Hubert Walter — and Catholicism! God! T is a
pity, a rare pity, that they did not rather kill the
boy ! "

But Anthony had no longing for death that night.
Of a sudden the vague, widespread unhappiness in his
soul had concentrated into a point of agonized longing,
a longing which a jest of De Burgh's had awakened
within him. The greatest desire of his life, he felt,
was for the sight of a woman's face. For it was four
endless years since Anthony Fitz-Hubert had seen a
woman.

CHAPTER VI

GLASTONBURY

EVENING was falling upon the vale of Avalon —
the shadowy, hazy, hot twilight after a midsum
mer day. The pale leaves of the apple-trees hung
limply from their boughs ; but the great willows, which
drooped over the marshy stream twining lazily along
toward the river Brue, now and again stirred a feathery
limb in response to the delicacy of the western wind.
The sun had entered into the waters of Bristol channel
for his evening bath ; leaving his garments of crimson
and gold hung out in the western sky. Everything in
this fabled land had grown enchanted in the mystic
glow. Surely upon the mere that lay hidden in yonder
mist Arthur's funeral barge must be floating still, —
surely the gleaming arm in white samite must rise once
more from those living waters to grasp the blade of the
historic sword returned again to its home, after many
years of war and combat Vale of poet's lay and min
strel's song ! In truth it needs neither one of these to
chant such praises of thy beauty upon a summer even
ing of to-day !

How was it, then, seven hundred years ago? Turn
ing a little to the spot where great Arthur bade farewell
to life, — ye gods ! there was a marvel that no longer
meets the eyes of him who looks along that dell to-day.
A mighty cathedral, reared of carven stone, its windows
more brilliant in the evening light than the sky itself,
rose in its majesty from a clustering group of lowlier
buildings. Enclosing them all, forbidding and mysteri
ous, stood a high wall of stone.

103

North of this great church, at no long distance,
a lofty hill rivalled in height the towers of stone.
Its steep sides were bare of the trees which so plen
tifully ornamented the plain; and half a mile from
it lay a tiny hamlet, sheltered among the orchards
beside the river. The all-pervading glow which suf
fused this Tower Hill dazed, at first, the eyes of him
who looked upon it. Its crown was a chapel of gleam
ing white stone, whose uplifted cross caught the last
rays of the sun now throbbing beneath the waters so
plainly to be seen from this shrine to Saint Michael,
Patron of the Sea.

Into the shadowy silence which lay upon Avalon,
came a horseman, riding from out of the green dark
ness of the eastern forest. Horse and master alike
seemed to feel the sway of the stillness. Their appear
ance did not so much as startle a bird which, from the
bough of an apple-tree, was languidly carolling out a
slumber-song, that melted away into the hot twilight,
without a single vibration. Rider and steed drooped ;
the one in his saddle, the other over the fragrant, dry
grass, into which his burning hoofs sank at every step.
Both were roused a little when the walls of the abbey
suddenly rose over them. The horse stopped still.
Anthony, torn from his revery, raised his head, and
looked, slowly, lingeringly, all about him. A long
breath parted his lips.

" 'T is wondrous fair," he murmured to himself.

At sound of his voice the horse moved on again,
as before, till at last he stood in front of the great
northern entrance to the abbey. Here the monk
pulled rein, but did not dismount. He was suddenly
overwhelmed with some feeling strong enough to bow
his black head to his breast, and call from his lips a
deep, heart-broken groan. After five days of freedom,
unspeakably blessed, he was again about to enter the
gates which should shut him in, away from God's world,

104 (Hncanoni?eft

from God's peace, perhaps for all of his remaining life.
Five little days ! That short time had dispelled from his
spirit all those dulling layers of insensibility that only
years had served to wrap about it. He was once more
to be laid bare to the lash of inward rebellion from
which he shrank in horror. A pardoned prisoner recon-
demned to death ; a king returned from exile only to be
banished once again — these were light things com
pared to the life to which he must voluntarily resign
himself anew: that endless existence of religious sla
very from whose soul-crushing monotony there was no
escape but death. Why no escape? Anthony was
there, alone, in the falling darkness. None in the abbey
had been advised of his coming. The sweat started to
the monk's brow. And then — and then with a quick
tightening of the lips he sprang from his horse like one
flying from an irresistible temptation, and, without a
second's pause, seized upon the rope that sounded a
gong in the porter's lodge.

" Who is he that would enter? " drawled a surly voice,
quaverous with age.

The monk, with a twitch of the lips, suddenly seized
upon his horse's mane with a firm hand, and pulled
upon it till the astonished creature gave forth a loud
neigh of protest, at the same time rearing violently.
Then Anthony shouted, in his most strident voice :

" Open, brother, and thou shalt see our face ! "

Forthwith, hastily, the wicket was pulled back and
the weazened countenance of old William Lorrimer,
the porter, peered anxiously forth.

" By the cross, a monk ! I had thought it Lord
Gifford at the very least; sith we have learned that
the King's grace is returned to Windsor, and that
assur — "

" No lord," interrupted the monk, " but, none the
less, a right good friend to the King's grace, as thou
shalt soon hear when thou gain'st me entrance to the

105

prior's room. Now ope the gate, that I and my good
steed may enter. There be stables within ? "

Lorrimer sniffed. " Stables ! ay. Such as the like of
you ne'er before set eyes on. In sooth it had pleased
me better to have admitted such as at first I deemed
you."

"Thou 'st a liking for lords and barons, then? " con
tinued Anthony when he had led his animal inside.

The heavy gates closed behind him ; and the sound
of their shutting turned the stranger heart-sick once
more. The mood which led him to bandy words with
the old porter had vanished.

" Now then, Sir Monk, relinquish thy bridle. Here
be a lay-brother to take thy horse in charge. An thou
hast business with Harold, this is the path. T will —
nay. I myself will go with thee. 'T is well nigh time
for collation, and there will scarce be other visitors
to-night."

Together they proceeded along the hard-trodden walk
through well-kept grass, until they stood directly in
front of the great church, which towered, like a huge
cloud-shadow, above them in the growing darkness.
They passed the open doors leading into a beautiful
little chapel, and found themselves facing the visitor's
entrance to the monastery. Before entering, William
Lorrimer knocked sturdily at the door. Within the
corridor, which was but faintly lighted, stood a lay-
brother, already awaiting them. As Anthony went in
he was closely examined by the attendant.

" Doubtless you would see the prior," he said at
once.

"An it please you, — yes," returned the new-comer
courteously.

" I will guide thee. William Lorrimer, the brethren
are in the lavatory. 'T is the hour for collation."

So saying, the brother, followed by the newly arrived
monk, passed out of the vestibule and into a hallway

106

which, for those days, was brightly illumined by stone
lamps, built, at regular intervals, into the walls. From
this passage they turned into a long corridor which
finally led them into and through a great room which
seemed open to the night air. Then they crossed a
paved court, which was quite dark, and so into another
corridor, filled with the murmur of monks' voices. And
still they walked, past kitchens now, whence issued the
not unsavory odor of monastic fare; and so down a
final hall, at the end of which they paused at last before
a door. In this silent, four-minute walk, Anthony had
had time to wonder over the immensity of the monas
tery, which, even now, was in great part unfinished.

Almost totally destroyed by fire in the year 1184, the
famous abbey was, from that date until its dissolution
in the reign of Henry VIII., in a continual state of
building, being added to and remodelled by king and
abbot, till its ruins to-day, though but a remnant of
what once covered that historic spot, still bear the
marks of every change of architecture, from the per
fected Norman through each stage of the Gothic, and
well into the beginning of the English renaissance.
Now, as Anthony beheld it in this year 1207, it con
tained ample, even sumptuous, lodging for two hundred
monks, though but half that number occupied the dor
mitory cells, and luxurious suites for each officer and
dignitary of the abbey, besides guest-chambers suffi
cient for forty nobles and their retainers. The later
abbots were accustomed to entertain from three to
four hundred guests monthly within their walls. To
the new-comer, accustomed as he was to the cramped
housing provided for the chapter of Canterbury, it
seemed as though he had entered a boundless wilder
ness of stone, in which there could be no place for
familiar comfort and quiet solitude.

After a short pause before the door of the prior's
apartment, the two, Anthony and his guide, were ad-

107

mitted, and conducted through a large oratory into the
prior's own apartment. Harold had just finished a special
devotion, and was now seated before a table, upon which
collation — of which he but rarely partook in the refec
tory — had been served to him. He was a very large
man, heavy-cheeked, and with an ample mouth, har
monizing nobly with his " fair round belly with fat
capon lined." Harold's pale blue eyes, which were
capable of reflecting great variety of emotion, were
steely when the visitor, delaying his meal, entered the
room. He did not rise, nor was his manner pleasant
as he said : —

" How now, Sir Monk ! Thou 'rt a stranger. Hast
business with me, or am I but to bid thee welcome to
the abbey for overnight? "

" I have business with you, sir, but none that will
occupy great length of time. Will it please you to
peruse this missive from the King, and here another
from the Pope, and then perchance to bid me welcome
for myself ? "

At the phrase " from the Pope " Harold rose in haste
to his feet, while at the monk's last words both he
and the lay-brother examined the stranger with a new
curiosity.

" Indeed, brother, I crave pardon for discourtesy. I
had thought you some messenger from a neighboring
prelate."

" Jocelyn," was Anthony's mental note.

" Be seated while I read. Henry, thou may'st go."

The lay-brother left the room ; Anthony sat down
upon a settle ; and Harold broke the seal of the docu
ment from Rome. No comment was made upon the
letter, but Harold's expression was kindly enough,
when he laid it carefully down and took up that of the
King. As the end of this parchment was approached
a change came into the prior's face. Anthony watched
with fearless apprehension, wondering what John had

chosen to say of him. It was not long before he learned.
Flinging the royal letter upon a table, Harold turned to
the monk.

" So, thou son of Hubert Walter ! You think to live
here among us, whose bitter enemy thy father hath
been? Know you not that he was the follower of
Savaric, and the fool of Alexander? "

Anthony rose instantly. " I know naught of the
quarrels of this house with the former Archbishop of
Canterbury; but, whate'er they were, it behooves you
not to speak in disrespect of one so much above us
both in rank and spirit."

Harold looked at him curiously. " Thou art loyal to
the memory of him who made thee a monk to do
penance for —

"Be silent!"

" — his own sin."

" Thou churl ! "

Then they stood silent, facing each other ; Anthony
struggling with his temper, Harold frowning and un
easy. All unconsciously the prior picked up the two
letters from the table, smoothed them out, and folded
them with great care. Signs of battle were hung out
in his face. Finally, drawing down his tunic writh a
jerk, where it wrinkled over his broad frame, he said,
pettishly : -

" Well Anthony, 't is a brave beginning for an entrance
to the abbey. However, I doubt not thou must stay ;
for with us, the word of the Pope is law. To-night, sith
collation is nearly over in the refectory, thou must
needs sup here with me. We will join the brethren at
compline."

Anthony bowed, and the conversation was closed.

Their meal, when freshly heated things had been
brought in, was by no means traditionally meagre. In
fact it seemed to Anthony that the amount prepared for
two would have served half the monks in Canterbury

109

Chapter. After watching Harold for a little, however,
his opinion changed. At length, when everything
upon the trenchers, together with the last flagon of
mead, had disappeared under the prior's ferocious
attacks, Anthony, with heartfelt thanksgiving, rose up
after his companion.

" Now, to Joseph's Chapel, wherein already the bell
is ringing; and after compline shalt thou be conducted
to a cell for thyself within the dormitory overhead.
Thither, already, thy pack hath been carried. Come
now. 'Tis this way."

A small door at one side of the prior's room opened
upon a narrow passage, along which they walked, side
by side, in darkness, till the lights from the chapter
house met their eyes. Through this large room they
passed, entering from it the great church itself, the
farther end of which opened into the beautiful chapel,
consecrated many years before to the Patron Saint of
the monastery, Joseph of Arimathea. When the prior
and his companion entered here the monks were already
assembled ; for in this place most of the services of the
day were held. There was many a curious glance at
Anthony, as he and Harold came among the kneeling
company ; and then, at once, compline began.

So occupied was the new-comer with the novelty of
the scene and of his thoughts, that the old and familiar
form did not pall upon him as usual. Mechanically his
lips moved, while his eyes wandered over the white,
carven screen before the altar, and the pillars that rose
above that, out of the range of candle-light, to mingle
with the shadows above. Then, by a slight turn of the'
head, he could see the black, well-like entrance to the
large church, where the one or two distant lamps, lighted
by penitent monks before special shrines, flashed like
infinitesimal stars through the gloom. As to the long
rows of kneeling brethren, before and about him, they
seemed to Anthony to differ not at all from those whom

no 3!ncanonf?ct)

he had known in the Augustinian monastery, and others
again in the chapter. There were the same ungainly
figures, the same shorn pates, the same dull faces. But
presently his eyes encountered the head of a young
monk whose place was close to the altar. At this head
he gazed, fascinated, till it was time to rise from his
knees. Three-quarters of the face was visible to him ;
a delicate face, a perfectly pure, white, refined face ; out
of which looked a pair of large, clear, innocent blue eyes.
The fine hair which grew about his tonsure was glorified
into a halo of gold from the lights of the candles near by.
Anthony was considering the picture, and wondering
whether it would appear less idealized by daylight, when
the last prayer was concluded.

In irregular groups, amid a low murmur of conversa
tion, the monks left their devotions, now ended for an
other day. Anthony followed after them as they
moved down the corridor, still keeping his young monk
in sight. Suddenly, somewhat to his surprise, a hand
was placed upon his shoulder. He turned about. Be
side him stood a tall, angular fellow, with a peculiar,
but not unpleasant face, who immediately addressed
him.

" Hey, Brother Anthony ! Well art thou come to
Glastonbury ! Forsooth thou 'rt the only one of thy
name in all this monkery of Benedict. Behold in me
Peter Turner, Master of the Fabric of the house, ruler
of a most unruly band of tailors ; betimes a merry dog
enow, and now a right sleepy one. Thy cell is next to
mine, i' the extreme western wing. My sleep is as
heavy as my snores, and there will be no one o' t'other
side. Look you, you may be late to matins every
blessed morning i' the year, and none the wiser, an you
tread softly. Now here be the stairs."

Anthony listened solemnly to this queer speech,
smiled a little at its queer speaker, and then continued
by his side in silence. He was too weary to care to

talk. In five minutes the new-comer was alone in his
dimly lighted cell. It was a larger one than he had
been accustomed to, and far more worthily furnished.
Upon his table stood the bundle of clothes and manu
scripts that he had brought with him from Canterbury.
This he unrolled, carelessly, intending to take from it
only his tunic for the night. With the movement some
thing from the bundle slid out, and fell, with a crack,
upon the stone floor. He stooped to pick it up.
It was the little steel dagger that had come with him
from Windsor when he left his other life, years ago.
Thinking nothing of the omen, he slipped the forbidden
weapon between the leaves of a little-used book, which
he put on his table, and there it remained for many a
long day. Then, without further ado, flinging day-cowl
and scapular aside for the night-garment, Anthony put
out his cresset lantern, and laid himself upon his bed.
Here, in the western wing of Glastonbury Abbey, a
hundred miles from any familiar sight or soul, he slept ;
and his dreams, as ever, were kinder than his waking
thoughts ; so that matins came all too soon.

Matins formally began the monastic day. At Glas
tonbury they were held in the chapel; and the order
was the singing of fifteen psalms, followed by the noc-
turn. A few final verses being chanted, the service
ended at about half-past three, an hour and a half after
its commencement. For the next twenty minutes there
was a pause, during which many of the novices, the
choir, and some few monks were permitted to retire till
the beginning of lauds, which were not finished until
six. Then for an hour there was reading, very drowsy
reading, in the library. At seven the monks returned
to their cells to dress for the day, doffing the coarse
night-tunics, and putting on scapulary, cowl, hood, and
shoes ; and it must be confessed that at this hour some
very unseemly mirth, and not a few ardent discussions
passed along the corridors from cell to cell. Then at

H2

half-past seven a long procession from the lavatory,
which was placed next to the refectory, marched with
solemn chant into that great room for the first meal of
the day. No conversation was supposed to take place
during any meal, but human nature is prominent in all
men; Saint Benedict had been dead a conveniently
long time ; and therefore the early breaking of the fast
was wont to be a pleasant one. After it there was a
half-hour available for idling, or extra prayers, or
work, until tierce, the service for the third hour. This,
high mass immediately followed. Between half-past
ten and eleven there was a general assembly in the
chapter-house, where the chief officer in the abbey
gave his dally homily, and decreed penitences; after
which, abbot (when there was an abbot in Glastonbury),
prior, sub-prior, and deacons conducted whatever busi
ness might have come up during the last four-and-
twenty hours ; the almoner saw to his daily work among
the poor; the farmerers busied themselves in their
offices, or rode off to attend some part of the abbey
lands ; the hebdomadary, refectioner, cellarer, and cooks
gat them to their respective apartments, to work over
affairs of the flesh ; the master of novices held his
school in the apartment next the prior's rooms, the pre
centor drilled his choir in the chantry, the tailors hur
ried to their sack-cloth, the scribes to the scriptorium,
and those monks who were unofficially employed con
ducted the service of sext in the chapel. After all this
came the great event of the day, — obviously, dinner.
This usually occupied close upon an hour and a half,
and was strictly conducted. Dinner etiquette in the
abbey was a rigorous and curious matter. Always,
through the meal, a monk, stationed in the pulpit
at one end of the refectory, read to the brethren
some authorized sacred or philosophic work. He, poor
fellow, was obliged for the day to forego his meal,
unless he chanced to stand well in the graces of the

refectioner or some member of the temporary staff of
cooks.

After dinner there was a needed hour for rest or
recreation, which period was always the dullest in the
day. At three o'clock came nones, service for the ninth
hour, which was followed by vespers. From four
o'clock until seven all in the abbey went to work, each
according to his professed duty. Many of these monks,
otherwise unemployed, went into the fields to labor with
the secular farmers of the Glastonbury lands, — a health
ful task, and no unpleasant one, in this exquisite Som
erset shire. From seven o'clock until eight there was
a general assembly in the great room of the abbey, at
which time the monks read, indulged in controversy or
dialectic over religious matters, or talked among them
selves, in their peculiar way, half gentle, half barbarous,
of the topics of the day — their day. At eight o'clock
came collation, a much needed meal; one sometimes
prolonged until compline, which followed it, had to be'
garbled quickly through. The long day was often
finished by confession and evening prayer, and half-past
nine was supposed to see the brethren upon those
couches from which they must rise again little more
than four hours later.

Such was the changeless, endless round endured by
many thousands of human souls for all the years of their
lives; this not alone during the ages of semi-barbarism,
but also before, — and after. Heaven rest their souls in
prayerless peace forevermore !

One week in Glastonbury sufficed to show Anthony
that he was not destined to find many friendships
there. Prior Harold had not seen fit to keep the knowl
edge of his sonship secret ; and the unconcealed com
ments, and the curious, unfriendly glances that met him
on every hand, soon proclaimed this fact to the new
comer, who writhed inwardly, but endured in silence.
With one of Anthony's accomplishments, however, uni-

H4 2Jncanoni?e&

versal satisfaction was expressed. This was his manner
of reading aloud. The first time that he was called
upon to do so, and it was but three days after his
entrance into the abbey, he quite astounded the brethren.
The melodious, perfectly modulated voice, the easy
manner, the delicate shades of expression, gave to his
subject a beauty and an interest that was more sensuous
than intellectual. Against their own wills he charmed
and tantalized his audience, till he was urged into the
promise of taking the pulpit for one day in each week.
This pleased the monks highly ; though none of them
had the heart to propose that he be allowed some
thing to eat during recreation hour. And, amid their
satisfaction, they failed also to perceive that it was
always toward one man that Fitz-Hubert's voice was
directed. Only that one knew, and thought about it,
with pleasure in his absent eyes. It was the little monk
whom Anthony had watched on the evening of his first
arrival, — the one of the golden hair, whose face the
candle-light had not idealized, but who appeared, among
the dark and motley forms among which he moved,
like some unappreciated saint.

Philip, — films Benedicti. Him Anthony addressed,
week after week, in his reading ; but to him, personally,
he never spoke. Philip was a strange spirit. Amid
those surroundings where were many things, and many
men, infinitely distasteful and coarse, Philip walked,
apparently a brother to all, yet in reality alone, in per
fect gentleness, in perfect refinement. His position did
not render him unhappy, because anything other and
better than Glastonbury he had never known. His very
parentage was too obscure to have provided him with
one of those ready surnames, so easily manufactured in
those times. Long before he was old enough to take the
monastic vows, Glastonbury sheltered him as a novice.
He had no history. He was taken by his fellows almost
as something that went with the abbey. His life ap-

us

peared to them all to be irreproachable, even as it
was unapproachable. They left him to live in peace
in the world of his own creating. Philip's dreams were
strange; and the proof that they were the strongest
things in his nature was the fact that they material
ized. His two great passions were music (which he,
like nobody else who ever attempted it, contrived to
evoke from the throats of the choir-boys) and illumi
nating. He was the first scribe of the monastery ; one
of the five antiquarii, or copyists and translators.
And he never permitted it to be guessed that at times
he departed from these venerable occupations, to join,
out of sympathy, the ranks of the far less respected
librarii, or composers of original text, — something of
far less importance, from a thirteenth-century point of
view, than exploiting the brains of another man with
plenty of red and blue flourishes, and all the gold-leaf
that one chose to introduce. Philip was, by profession,
an antiquarius, because he was quaintly conventional
at heart, and wished to do the most estimable thing.
Otherwise he was a librarius, because instinctively he
knew it to be a glorious thing to see his own thoughts
laid upon parchment, and find afterwards that they
were good.

To his two pleasures had, of late, been added a
third, which contained the great and wonderful nov
elty of human sympathy. It was Anthony's reading.
Anthony's voice went straight into Philip's heart; and
Philip's answer might always be read in his open face.
Of this silent relationship both were perfectly aware,
yet for more than a month after the coming of Anthony
no attempt was made by either to seek a closer com
panionship. It would have been difficult for them
to have explained that reluctance. Anthony's reason
was a sense of dread, dread to come nearer and find
this new purity in some way sullied. He hesitated
to try the character of the other, because he feared to

find at last what usually he could see immediately, and
scorn. Philip was only in a state of dreamy vacuity.
He would have considered the possibility of a nearer
acquaintance with the stronger man in the light of
an entirely new idea; but, upon the whole, not an
unpleasant one.

In the monastery there was but one monk who had
ever desired to claim intimacy with the young scribe.
This was David Franklin, the precentor ; whose reason
for such a friendship was the benefit to be gained for his
office by Philip's innate musical ability. Otherwise
their affinity might have been regarded as purely an
accident. David Franklin, in all probability, was the
most disagreeable person in the abbey, excepting
neither Joseph Crandalle, master of the unfortunate
novices, nor Benedict Vintner, the cellarer, who, indeed,
had been known to laugh at a ribald joke, when drunk.

David Franklin's face resembled his character. It
was gnarled and twisted and dark, till it looked like
a gargoyle. His mouth was thick-lipped and small.
His nose was that very one with which Noll Goldsmith
was presented some hundreds of years later ; and his
eyes were so sunken and so fiery that he was com
monly supposed to see in the dark. The barber had
never much work to tonsure his half-bald head. His
hands were a knotted mass of bones and sinews. A
strange shadow, truly, for Philip the graceful to cast;
but accepted now as inevitable by every monk save
Anthony the stranger. He, while never obtruding
upon Philip, nevertheless often watched him, half uncon
sciously. He saw him at various unwonted pursuits,
and formed a very good opinion of the scribe's domi
nating self-life. The wish to come closer to that life at
last began to take root in his lonely mind. And still,
unaccountably, he hesitated to approach. Finally, how
ever, a circumstance made an understanding between
them possible, desirable, and necessary.

"7

It was the hour for recreation in the abbey, on a cer
tain stifling afternoon at the very end of August. Few
of the monks felt energy enough to go about their
usual half-hearted pastimes, and nearly all had retired
to their cells in comatose languor. Anthony went up
with the rest, but the sun streamed brilliantly into his
little room through its western window ; and from with
out there came to his ears the myriad busy, droning
murmurs of ephemeral insect life. His mind was
weighted with many thoughts that clamored for anal
ysis. Gradually he fell into a morbid train of reflection
concerning, as ever, the utter emptiness of his own
existence, now really more exiled in loneliness than
ever before. For six weeks he had been housed in the
abbey, and not one single word from the outer world
concerning his supposed mission there had he received.
He had come hither on behalf of the King to learn what
he could of the deceits of Jocelyn of Bath. Jocelyn
had been neither seen nor heard from. It appeared
that the aims of the abbey were entirely self-centred
and sordid. The monks seemed not one whit disturbed
by any foreboding concerning the Bishop of Bath.
Secondly, in coming here another office had been con
signed to him, a sacred duty had been trusted to him ;
one whose performance had promised to be both inter
esting and congenial. Was this also a mere decep
tion? Where was the Princess Eleanor? If she had
been told where and who he was, why did she not send
for him? What had become of De Burgh, whom he
was to have met so frequently? If the object of King
and Pope alike had been to get him out of the way, why
had they not let him depart into Europe with the
monks of the chapter, where he would have been far
more efficaciously lost than now, in the King's loyal
county of Somerset? And De Burgh — his old friend,
he to whom, next to the Earl of Salisbury, he had ever
looked up as the model of all that was gentle, — De

n8 (HncanoniieD

Burgh a party to so cruel a thing? No. These con
jectures were worse than nothing. There was some
mistake. At best he, the monk, was utterly powerless.
It were far better not to yield himself to these unwise
fears. And with this last sensible idea, Anthony
sprang from his couch, opened the door of his cell,
and stepped out into the corridor.

About him there was absolute silence. He stood in
the furthest corner of the western wing, and nearly all
the cells immediately about him were untenanted. The
greater number of rooms for common monks were in
the eastern portion of the dormitories ; those for dea
cons, priests in orders, and visiting friars, being in the
west. For a moment or two Anthony stood undecid
edly before his door. Neither the lower rooms, still
permeated with an odor of cooking, nor the abbey
grounds, on one side of which were the stables, on the
other the infirmary, promised satisfactory solitude.
Finally, with a sudden light in his face, the monk
turned from the great corridor down a small passage, at
the end of which was a small, seldom opened door.
Through this he passed, entering the clerestory, or
upper gallery of the great, half-roofed church. Here,
for a little, he wandered idly, till there came to his ear
the distinct murmur of voices from below. Leaning
over the railing of the balcony, he looked down, be
holding, and recognizing at once, the two whom he
could hear. They were Philip and David Franklin.
The scribe leaned against a reading-desk, facing the
precentor, who paced restlessly before him, talking as
he did so.

" Again I tell thee that 't is Harold, not I, that coun
sels thee to this move. Thou knowest, as do we all, this
fellow's parentage, and the unexplained strangeness of
his coming hither."

Anthony scowled.

"David, I know only what ill natured gossip saith

119

concerning the man. For myself I would know no ill
of him. I beseech you tell me none ; " and the young
monk tapped nervously upon the desk.

" T is not that we know ill of him ; but would learn
the real secret of his mission among us. When that be
known I '11 warrant me he '11 be treated with more of the
courtesy that thou desirest."

There was a pause. Philip regarded the precentor
with troubled eyes. Then he said, slowly : l< Let some
other than me win his confidence. The idea of it liketh
me not. T is base."

" Tut ! Thou 'rt silly, Philip. There is no harm in
it. Only his lordly ways, and his great words, when,
indeed, he speaks at all, and his scorn of us — Oh !
he maddens me ! It smacketh more of court than of
the lowly manner which befits us — "

" Thou lowly, David ! Not as Saint Dunstan willed,
I warrant me ! "

" Enough of fooling, then. I am off now for my rest,
so tell me thy mind ere I go. Thou knowest, Philip,
this monk Anthony courts thee from the pulpit, o'
Fridays, as doth a man a maid. Nay, I have seen it,
child ! Now surely 't will be none so difficult a task
to bring him closer — talk with him — learn his mind;
and, for thy report, Harold will grant thee three indul
gences in this month, and as many i' the next."

Anthony strained his ears for the answer to the bribe.
It came.

" Go on to thy rest, David. No further will I speak
with thee to-day. I like not thy talk. At least I will
not be bought. Indulgences ! For penetrating the
mind and heart of him who reads the ' De Consolatione '
with the voice of an angel ! — nay, David ! Why hast
thou spoiled my delight? Be off! I would think here,
alone."

And David, learning wisdom from the tone, turned
shortly upon his heel, and left the church.

120

The scribe remained standing just where the precen
tor left him. He leaned a little more heavily upon the
desk, and pressed his temple with his hand. The door
was behind him. Presently he was startled by the
sound of a light, rapid footstep. He turned, and per
ceived some one in the shadow, near him.

" Philip," said the gentle, familiar voice.

" Anthony! " responded the scribe, confusedly.

"Ay; I am Anthony. I heard something of thy
converse with David Franklin, and so I am e'en come
hither now, of mine own free will, to set thy mind at
rest concerning me. Wilt listen, patiently — and with
out suspicion? " There was a dubious inflection in the
last phrase.

Philip raised his eyes to those brilliant black ones
which confronted him ; then answered slowly, with a
manner much abashed :

" Brother, I would know nothing of thee, now.
Rather, I will speak of myself, and you shall judge me.
In aftertime, when thou hast confidence in my wish to
keep thy words sacred from all prying ears, thou shalt
speak of thyself for mine own sake, for love of me.
For I would have thee, gladly, for my friend."

With a rare smile Philip held out his slender hand ;
and Anthony grasped it in his own. The bond was
sealed ; and two lonely men rejoiced.

The mellowing sunshine poured through the chinks in
the wooden roof; and from the bright windows lay
upon the floor great isolated pools of purple, scarlet,
and green. Around and about the dusky recesses over
head, in through the vault, then away again, darted a
pair of busy swallows. The drowsing murmur of the
summertide also entered here ; and Anthony heard it
with new ears. His melancholy had fled. He had
given himself up to another, who was pouring out to
him all the story of that inner life which he had been
reading for so long.

121

" Oft have I thought thee ill content with monastic
rule, Anthony; and I remember that here, for long
years, as a novice, I, too, chafed at my place. But after
a time I fell to walking quietly in the way, and then,
what with the familiarity of all the faces, the knowledge of
all my Brothers' tasks and notions, the regular sound of
the bell in the tower, the assurance of each hap to come
throughout the day, I came to be most peaceful, and,
withal, ever somewhat far away with mine own thoughts.
Save only matins, which betimes are drear and chilly, I
love the services and the prayers. The oft-repeated
words lie ready on my tongue, and mine eyes are free to
watch the melting colors which lie on the floor yonder,
underneath the window. Constantly am I striving to
reproduce their beautiful mingling upon my parchment.
Then too, there is music, the organ, and the chanting
of the brethren, whose voices spread out through this
great church, and fill it tremblingly full. The mystery
of sound, and how it doth appeal to different souls —
this also I can never solve, but dearly love to dream
about." He paused.

" And these, all these quiet and simple things,"
questioned Anthony, " are these sufficient to keep thee
content amid such unending duties? Thy music, and
thy manuscripts — true, these are pleasures. But it
seems incredible that such unspeaking companions
should keep thee in content year after year."

" Nay, Anthony," and Philip's voice was troubled.
" I do perceive that I should tell the rest — that thing
which, God pardon me, I never have had strength to
confess, and for which I pray that my soul may be shrived
when my day cometh, else may I be damned forever
hereafter ! " and there was fear now in Philip's voice.

" 'T is a woman, Philip ? " asked Anthony, with some
surprise.

Philip raised his head quickly. " How didst thou
know that? Hast seen her? " he demanded.

122

"Seen her? Nay, surely not. How should I see
any one? There hath been no woman about the abbey
since I came."

"About the abbey? God forbid! Nay, Anthony,
you judge me wrongly. 'T is no woman, but rather a
girl, and one so fair, so pure, so perfect, that I scarce
dare gaze upon her even while I teach."

"Teach? Oh! How, and when?" Anthony's in
terest was growing.

" Ofttimes at this very hour, when, unobserved, I can
steal away from the grounds. Thou knowest the cloaca,
on the southeastern lawn?"

"Yes."

" There, in a corner of the wall, hidden by bushes, is
a little opening, left when the wall was built. Through
this I pass, and upon the border of the neighboring
wood she waits for me. She is learning to read from
parchments writ by mine own hand, which I do bring
to her. Ah, Anthony ! T is a wondrous thing ! "

"Her name, Philip?" inquired the friend, breaking
in upon the young monk's pause with a quiet smile.

" Mary, — the name of the Mother of God."

"And doth she dwell in Glastonbury hamlet?"

" Nay. She is the child of William of the Longland
farm, that borders the road to Wells — 't is of the
abbey lands."

" I know. Joseph Antwilder rides thither full often,"
responded Anthony, without thinking.

"What say you! Joseph Antwilder? He hath no
fair — "

"Nay, Philip, be not disturbed. 'Tis but natural
that he should ride there, being farmerer," responded
the elder monk, a little surprised at the amount of feel
ing that Philip so suddenly disclosed.

" I know — I know. T is not my right ever to think
of her. I should not have spoken to thee, Anthony.
Thou wilt, as is thy duty, betray me to one of the

123

confessors. I shall see her no more ! — Mary ! — Mary
mea ! "

" Philip, Philip, thou 'rt unjust ! Why ! Think you
that I could take away from a fellow-slave the one
divine joy that hath been given him ? Heaven forbid !
Nay, I love thee for thy love of her, since 't is pure.
Now ere the bell for nones thou shalt tell me more, how
she looks, and what it is that you do read together."

Philip looked up at his companion with an expression
that had never crossed his face before. Impulsively he
once more took Anthony's hand in his own, out of pure
delight. " Thank thee — and bless thee," he murmured.
" Now, an thou 'It come up to my cell, I will show thee
the reading. They are no dry and sacred tomes and
treatises, but madrigals and songs and lays that I
myself devise and indite for her, all for her."

They rose from the praying-desk upon whose edge
each had rested, and moved together, side by side, out
of the church ; the one with his face alight with eager
ness, the second looking down upon the fair gold-brown
head, his sombre eyes filled with a strange glow. And
thus they left behind the silent church, and the sun
light, and the color-pools ; and the hot cloister saw
them thus, for the first time, together.

CHAPTER VII

TONSURE AND THORN

FOUR months dragged themselves away in hopeless
dulness at the abbey. Christmas-tide was at
hand, and, true to its sacred tradition, the Glas-
tonbury thorn was in blossom. The story that matches
this statement would be, perhaps, worth the telling.

About eighteen hundred and seventy years ago, upon
the shores of the Mediterranean Sea, on the southern
coast of Gaul, a man and a woman, who had helped to
make one scene of history which will endure while earth
still cherishes humanity, parted from each other forever.
The woman was Mary Magdalene; the man, Joseph of
Arimathea. The saint left his companion at the rude
city of Massilia, where she was to preach the gospel for
the first time to western Europe; while he went on
again his toilsome way, in his fragile, indestructible bark,
to carry the new story of the world still farther among
men. In a month after his separation from Christ's
thirteenth disciple, he landed upon British soil ; and
about three months after this, while the Celtic language
still came hardly to his lips, Joseph and a little group of
companions who had accompanied him from out of the
east, stood within this very vale of Avalon, later to be
known as Glaestings. Across the valley, and toward
the southeast hill they walked, slowly, and without
speaking, — Joseph, his worn face painfully haggard
and strained, still taking the lead. Up and up the long
ascent they toiled, and, having reached its summit, out
of necessity permitted themselves to halt at last. Indeed

anti Cljotn 125

they could walk no more, but dropped there heavily to
the ground, and " Weary-All Hill " it is become to-day.
After a little while the Arimathean, with a strange light
in his face, sprang to his feet and struck his long-used
staff firmly into the ground.

" Here, my brothers, we will find rest at last. Upon
this barren spot shall the first church of Our Lord in
the new country be built. And it shall prosper, and
wax rich and great, till all the vale about it shall be
famed for holiness, for His house is founded upon a
rock, as He Himself hath said. Behold, I have spoken."

" And well hast thou spoken," responded the inward
voice which was known to all. And thereafter the
miracle came to pass. For that poor, wooden stick,
plucked a year agone near Jerusalem of the Jews in
the land of Judea, at that very time of the year (which
was Christmas), did take root in this new spot, and
grew, and put forth a wealth of white thorn blossoms,
together with leaves so delicately green that it seemed
a little piece of paradise in the midst ol the chilly
waste.

So for the first time bloomed that Glastonbury thorn,
upon the spot where now lies but a white stone to mark
its history. But for many hundreds of years, at the
same season, it put on its garb of white and green,
until a Puritan cut it down. And in the reign of King
John the merchants of Bristol and Bath, at Christmas-
tide, did a thriving trade in selling buds, blossoms, or
slips from the famous tree.

Many a time had Anthony heard this story, it being
one of the holiest of the traditions of the Church. Once
even he had seen the tree itself; taking Philip's repre
hensible method of leaving the enclosure, and thence
making a circuit to the south and west outside, till the
top of Weary-All Hill, and the thorn-tree, with its bare,
sapless branches were before him. That had been in
November. Now, a month later, when, according to

i26 (3ncanont?e&

the miracle, it should be unrivalled in beauty, — more
lovely than could be imagined, by contrast to its bleak
surroundings, — the monk was unholily sceptical, and
neither went to see it again for himself nor thought to
ask about it.

With the approach of Christmas a spirit of festivity
came upon the abbey. Two high feasts, one before,
and one after the rigorous extra masses of the twenty-
fifth, were permissible, and quite customary in Benedic
tine houses; but this year a third holiday was joined
to the other two, by the chance that caused " shaving-
day " to fall toward the end of December. No matter
how many private seances as to chin and hair a monk
might have undergone at the barber's hands within
three months, it was an unbreakable rule in the cloister
that four times a year each monk should be shaved
over his tonsure, in the presence of his immediate
brethren.

So, on Saturday, of the twentieth of December, in
that year of 1207, there was an unwonted air of holiday
about Glastonbury. At dinner the rule of silence was
broken with light heart and great frequency. The
reader, having struggled through a weary chapter or
two, and finding himself unheeded, glanced doubtfully
at the prior, beheld him lost in the effort of drinking
two pegs downward in the great flagon, decided the
moment to be auspicious, and forthwith darted from
the pulpit, leaving Saint Matthew face down on the
desk, while he quickly disappeared through the door
which led to the kitchens. His departure was hailed,
alike by lay-brother and deacon, with serene satisfac
tion. The clamor of conversation burst unrestrainedly
forth; and Harold, having emerged from the home
brew, looked down the long tables, hesitated, coughed,
and suddenly addressed a ribald remark to William
Vigor, the austere little sub-prior, at the foot of the
table.

Conjsmre and c^orn 127

The prolonged meal being finally ended in a chorus
of laughter and doggerel verse, set to a chant, a dis
orderly recessional was made to the lavatories. In the
meanwhile Benedict Caldwell, the barber, had left the
refectory sometime before grace, and made his way
across the abbey grounds to the shaving- house, which
stood on the western side of the enclosure, in the
shadow of the stone wall.

Glastonbury Abbey and its lawns and out-buildings
occupied, at this period, about sixty acres of ground.
Of this space perhaps thirty acres, in the centre of the
park, were occupied by the monastery proper, together
with the extensive foundations for further apartments,
upon which, just now, work had ceased, for want of
money. Immediately about this central mass of build
ings were spacious terraces, kept in perfect condition,
shaded here and there by magnificent trees or a group
of shrubs, and varied on the eastern side by an exten
sive garden, where greens, roots, and the few vegetables
common at that day were raised. The great entrance
was in the northwestern wall; and just within the enor
mous gates was the porter's lodge. On the west side,
farther down, was a smaller entrance, used by lay-
brethren, the farmers, and the almoner. A hundred
feet south of this small gate was the shaving-house ;
and in the angle of the southern and western walls stood
the infirmary, — a good-sized building, and one never
empty. Along the south wall, beginning at the centre
and extending eastward as far as practicable, was sit
uated the reservoir, — a deep trench, lined with stone,
and fed by a branch of the little river Brue. This har
bored the fish used in the abbey on fast-days, and was
the most carefully tended detail of the kitchen depart
ment. The entire length of the reservoir was shaded by
rows of bushes and low trees, a group of which entirely
concealed a certain narrow opening in the wall, so
useful to some of the erring monkish spirits that its

128

existence, by common understanding, was never men
tioned in the abbey. Following the eastern wall, along
a pleasant path, past the gardens, one reached the
stables, which were built in the northeastern angle, and
extended spaciously both west and south. Passing
therefrom back toward the entrance, along the outside
of the great church, near the chapel of Joseph, lay the
last thing to be seen, the first visible to the stranger
who should enter the monastery gates : the cemetery.
Possibly its site had been selected with some little art,
for the purpose of reminding the visitor, whose soul
might need shriving, that he stood upon the threshold
of the shrine of the most celebrated and quarrelled-over
saint in England ; 1 and that presents left at this shrine
would be rewarded by his saintship with soul's peace,
and would be graciously put to use by my Lord Abbot
and his deacons. Here also, beneath the only mound
in that resting-place, lay the bones of two who have
gone on to eternity in a blinding cloud of golden
romance, — Arthur, King of the Welsh, and Guinevere
his Queen. Here in the vale of Avalon, in the year
1192, the monks of the abbey had discovered within
their grounds a gigantic leaden coffin, containing two
skeletons and a great mass of shining yellow hair. On
the outside of the coffin was graven the name of the
King; and within it he lay at rest, — the arms of the
woman he loved thrown passionately about his stalwart
bones. The two were buried once again, just as they
had been found ; destined at last to a peaceful slumber
after the turbulence of their earth-life, and love, and
woe. Only, when the casket was lowered once again
into the earth, the golden hair that had been within it
was gone ; and in its place was but a little heap of dust.
Now whether this undeniable fact of their common
burial would seem to cast a doubt upon the long-
accepted story of the faithlessness of that queen of

1 Dunstan.

anti C^orn 129

old, I leave for other lips than mine to say ; but the tale
as here 't is told is true, according to the annals of the
sacred Abbey of Avalon.

So the Glastonbury grounds have been viewed, from
a distance. But the true atmosphere of the place, the
beauty of the old park, the magnificence of the trees,
the blue of the horizon-line of hills, and the melancholy
induced by the vasty silence, — all these defy descrip
tion, and must grow, by lingering imagination, into the
heart itself.

By this time, twenty minutes after the end of dinner,
the shaving-house and the space about it, were filled
with monks, who moved about restlessly from one
position to another, talking with great animation, and
making vain attempts to banish the thought of the
northern wind, which was sweeping heavy December
snow-clouds up into the languid sunlight. The first
monk was already seated, with Benedict Caldwell bend
ing professionally over him ; while round about, from
every tongue, rose a babel of conversation, upon every
possible topic, general or particular, that chanced to
come into any one's head.

Anthony and Philip, arriving at the shaving-house
side by side, a little after the general throng, stopped
near a group whose central figure and moving spirit
was Harold the prior. Harold never disdained, on
holidays, to mingle freely with the brethren ; and
the most interesting conversation came, for obvious
reasons, from the corner where he happened to be.
As spiritual head of his cloister for the time being, the
friar's privilege of travelling abroad was, by Benedictine
law, his. And, since he took frequent advantage of
this liberty, he was apt to be excellently informed upon
topics, political and clerical, of the day. Just now a
few chance words, spoken with unintentional clearness,
drew Anthony closer to the group.

" Ay, 't is true. Jocelyn is at Bath — may Saint

9

i3° ajncanoni?eti

Thomas confound him ! Methinks it bodes something
none too good for us that he hath been there for a full
month in secret."

" T is unusual that in so long a time he hath not
once approached us," responded Eustace Comyn, a
deacon, once brain and body of the abbey, but latterly
in disfavor.

" Perchance, Master Eustace, he hath not been so
silent as thou thinkest," retorted Harold, with disagree
able intent.

" But how should he find so much time to be spent
hidden away here when his friends are all in counsel
with Stephen Langton in France, — that is the marvel,"
continued William Vigor.

" All England is being turned over to France," snarled
David Franklin. " What with a French Archbishop,
and a French Queen, and the King's French ' cousins/
and his French favorites always about him, there will
soon be no England left, but only a petty French
dependency."

" As to the archbishopric," said William Vigor, " as
suredly the King taketh that ill enow."

" T is sooth. What with his wretched stubbornness
on the matter toward his Holiness, we '11 have interdict
down upon the land ere long."

" Oh, 'tis little likely that the matter will go as far as
that," rejoined Harold. " The King is but showing his
power. He already is highly unpopular among the
barons. Ere long he will give in and acknowledge
Lord Stephen."

" Not while he hath Geoffrey Fitz-Peter, and Peter
de Rupibus, and Hubert de Burgh, about him," cried
Comyn, and at the sound of the last name Anthony
pressed still closer.

"Is the King now in England with the court?" he
ventured, after an instant's hesitation, to inquire. It was
bitter to him to think that he must ask the whereabouts

Conswre anti C^orn is1

of his supposedly intimate friends, of these monks;
but far more bitter was the thought, now growing
steadily upon him, that he was, in truth, deserted here,
hopelessly, in a decaying monastery. The desire to
have some knowledge to go upon had prompted the
question.

Harold was the only one of the group who turned at
his words. The prior also answered him, while the rest
moved slightly together as if they feared that he might at
tempt to enter their party. They need not have dreaded
this, as a thought of including himself among them had
not entered Anthony's mind.

" John hath sailed again for Normandy, with half the
court and all his fighting men, 'tis said. Doubtless
there is trouble in Poictou."

" A turbulent State, but never dangerous without its
leader," came from Anthony's lips, unconsciously.

"Its leader? Arthur, mean you?" inquired Comyn.
with curiosity.

" Nay, De la Marche, who is in John's hands."

" Ah ! I bethink me now. The Queen's ancient
amour."

" Ancient in more ways than one. He was of years
enow to be her father."

" Yet still, they say, she doth cherish his memory."

" Nay. The King hath been passionately devoted to
her — "

" Hath been, but the passion is spent by now. She is
not gone to Normandy with him."

" Say you so, Harold ! I had thought she ever jour
neyed in his company."

" Not this — Ah ! So, Master Precentor, Benedict
Caldwell summons thee. Nay, look not so sorry,
David ! In very truth thou 'st a right secular coat
of down upon thy tonsure."

The rest of the group laughed heavily as Franklin,
with a rueful face, was seized and seated on the shaving-

132

stool, the first coat of lather being applied to his head,
and another playful one to his misshapen chin. The
small circle thus lessened, the conversation turned to
other and lighter matters, and Anthony moved farther
away to think. His meditation was unprofitable, and
upon the one subject which now scarcely left his
thoughts, — his desertion here by De Burgh. This
time, however, he was more bitter than ever, for his
brain had been set on fire by hearing the names and
matters of which he had once known so much. His
heart was full, and his face as gray as the sky overhead,
while continually his gloomy revery was pierced by the
noise from around him. At last the shouts of laughter
from about the shaving-stool grew so uproarious and
so genuine that he, with the rest, pushed forward to see
what it meant. And when the real cause of the hilarity
became apparent to him, he, even he, was betrayed into
a smile.

The bursar of the abbey, Michael, nicknamed " the
stout," was as vain of his personal appearance as he was
corpulent of body. Hitherto he had always taken the
greatest pains that his tonsure should not measure more
than the size of a copper penny, and that it be placed
directly upon the top of his head, where it might not
be seen. Upon occasions he was called, with intent to
flatter, " the novice," on account of this secular appear
ance. To-day a plot had been set on foot for his dis
comfiture. When Benedict Caldweil at last seated him
upon the stool and heard his repeated directions con
cerning his tonsure, a group of Michael's intimates closed
about him, so that the steel mirror, which was permitted
to be hung upon the wall opposite the stool, became
invisible. A lively conversation ensued, of which Michael
himself formed the principal theme, so that he became
highly interested in talking. And presently a flagon of
good red wine was handed him (this indulgence being
taken on shaving-days), and by the time that the cup

and C^orn 133

was emptied well down to the third peg Caldwell's
unerring dagger had shaved away half of the bristling
hair. The monks about him had great ado to keep their
faces straight as Michael calmly continued to expound
his ideas as to how the tunic was to be made more be
coming and more easily adjustable. Presently, however,
the barber's hand, shaking slightly from subdued mirth,
introduced the fine edge of his instrument to the flesh
far down upon the right side of the bursar's head. Up
sprang Michael, with an expression which afterward
cost him a dozen Aves, and, wrathfully overturning the
stool, forced his way to the mirror, confounded at the
first moment with the sight of himself. One half of his
head was shaved clean and bare ; the other half, already
cut close, was hidden beneath a plastering of brown
paste, in which Master Benedict had not spared the best
of his preparations for the purpose.

For a moment only was Michael still. Then his wrath
burst forth with the fury of a brute upon those who had
played him this trick. Against Caldwell particularly did
he storm. The monks defended themselves with interest
from personal violence, while some of those from the out
lying groups, taking Michael's part, threw themselves in
his behalf into the fray. In five minutes the room was
the scene of a pitched battle, and there appeared to be
danger of the afternoon's ending in a general brawl.

Anthony, at a little distance, looked on with indiffer
ent displeasure. He perceived that every monk in the
abbey was being drawn into the affair, and that it was
unlikely that William Vigor himself would be able to
restore quiet for some time to come. Even after this
should be done, it would probably be three or four
hours before he himself would have a turn at the shav
ing-stool ; and the prospect of the waiting was anything
but pleasant. On turning to Philip, who was still beside
him, he read his own thoughts written in the younger
man's face.

134

" It were well enough to leave here for a time ; think
you not so? " he asked.

"Ay," was the immediate response.

"Whither, then? To the library? Or, better, wilt
come with me to Tower Hill, where we may talk in
peace, without fear of interruption?"

Philip's reply to this was not so ready. After some
hesitation, and much nervous twisting of the fingers,
while Anthony watched him curiously, he asked, " Hast
seen the Glastonbury Thorn of late, Anthony?"

"Nay. I went to it but the single time of which I
told thee."

" Thou rememberest the legend ? "

" Certes. A pretty tale — for children."

Philip laughed. " 'T is in bloom now," he said.

Anthony stared incredulously. " It cannot be."

" Even so, ne'ertheless. Dearly would I love to prove
thee wrong. Come with me, Anthony, and see it."

Anthony looked at him again, sharply, but would
not ask the question that rose to his lips. Philip read
his face, however, and answered : —

" Mary will be there, I ween, and I would get a
manuscript for her ere we go."

" Then hadst not better go alone, Philip?"

" Art afraid of a maiden, brother?"

" Nay, verily — but — "

" Then come. We can readily escape without notice.
How they shout, there ! I will ascend first to my cell,
and meet thee round by the little opening at the
cloaca."

" T is well. On thy head be it if the lady upbraid
thee for over much company. Thou knowest, Philip,
three hath spoilt many a pretty game for the lesser
number."

" A fig for thy modesty. Thou knowest thou 'rt
longing to see her — but thou 'It not laugh — thou 'It
be very gentle, Anthony?"

Congure and C^orn 135

And the elder, not dreaming to think Philip's earnest
ness the discourtesy that it might have appeared,
grasped his hand for a moment as they separated, to
meet again at the cloaca.

Meantime the tumult in the shaving-house subsided
by degrees, as it was bound to do. In half an hour the
united efforts of Harold, William Vigor, and John
Cusyngton, had restored the factions to order and
peace ; Michael was ordered to his cell to sleep away
his wrath, and cover his bald head from the cold with
a hood ; while Caldwell, vowed to commit no further
depredations on cherished locks, was set to work quietly
upon Master Comyn. For a few minutes, then, un
usual repression brooded about the little building. Cer
tain bold spirits, however, with blood roused by the
recent excitement, were still determined not to be
balked of their holiday. Some rising murmurs of
renewed conversation were encouraged by the depart
ure from the scene of William Vigor, Harold, and
several officers ; and high humor was entirely restored,
shortly after, by Benedict Vintner, who, visibly under
the influence of the grape, was walking back and forth
busily, from cellar to shaving-house, bearing jars and
flagons of wine and mead, which now passed merrily
from lip to lip among the brethren. Snatches of song
and choruses in Latin and English began to be heard
here and there ; and coarse jests were bandied about.
Presently Benedict Vintner was seen to come out of the
abbey with a broad grin stretching his unpleasant
mouth ; and this fact was instantly connected with that
of the disappearance of Harold and three other good
fellows, not counting the sub-prior, who rarely went in
for dissipation. The significance of the connection was
marked, as one monk after another called out or looked
a question to the cellarer, when he was among them
again.

" Ay," responded Benedict, gruffly, to one of these

136 aincanonf?eD

delicate queries; "Antwilder, Martin le Rane, and
Comyn, not gone yet, but full noisy. They sit shout
ing out every foul secret of the house that they chance
to know, from the day of Benignus to the death of Will
Pike — God rest his soul ! They be still over mead
and posset wines; but, an I know the symptoms,
they '11 not stop there long ; — a pity, because there
be a fifty-year cask of Romany near to them, whose
praises Brother Martin already singeth."

A little groan went the rounds at this news, but no
man doubted the cellarer's word. No one of the shav
ing-house party made any move to go in rescue of the
venerable Romany; but there was one of that throng,
a man not too generally popular, who, at the men
tion of " secrets," though they might be as old as the
day of Benignus, pricked up his ear. This was David
Franklin. Ten minutes after Vintner's speech, he had
contrived an unnoticed disappearance from the shaving-
house and was making the best of his way to the cellars.

The great vaults that undermined the first floor of
the abbey were always dark. Therefore, at the foot
of the cellar stairs was fastened a rack, filled with
torches, and an ever-burning stone lamp. Lighting one
of these, that he might make no blunder on his way,
Franklin went carefully through the first damp vault,
stopping now and again to listen, and guiding his steps
toward a confused echo of voices that grew continually
louder as he came near. There was wild laughter,
shouting, and a loud gurgling sound. Finally some one,
who was presently to be recognized as Harold, began
to speak in a thick monotone; and, as soon as he was
near enough to hear distinctly all that was said, though
he could not see the prior, Franklin put out his torch,
crept to the wall, and stood there, listening to some
thing, indeed, which was very well worth hearing.

" By heaven, Joseph, thou shalt pester me no more.
Dost hear? Forsooth, the sulky, impertinent fellow

Congure an& C^orn 137

may look to his own missives from his lofty f-f-friends.
Silly to question thus. The letter was — wh-what
said I ? Oh — certes — the letter was unreadable, I
tell thee. None could read it, that swear I.' None.
Tira — lira — lay! Hi, Joseph! Be not more sour
than this good Burgundy, and thou 'It be as sweet i'
the face — as sweet — as sweet — as a lady's kiss, per
Bacchum ! "

Franklin moved uneasily. He was strangely eager
for Harold to say more of that letter which had not
reached him to whom it was directed. But Joseph, Le
Rane, and Comyn were all of them very far gone by
this time; and showed much hazy annoyance that
the prior's mind seemed to run continually upon one
unsociable theme.

" A lady's kiss," he drawled, affectionately. " Sweeter
than a — " Then, all of a sudden he sat bolt upright,
and spoke distinctly. " This missive from my Lord de
Burgh was so wet — so wet — (verily, it trippeth like a
refrain) — so wet, so wet — nay; this missive, I say;
did its bearer fall into ajar of — mead that ruined the
letter?

" A jar of mead ! On my soul 't is good ! Verily, I
know not. H-he had no time to tell the spot where
it may be found, but rid away or ere I saw him, or
Anthony either. John, — nay, William Lorrimer was
holding the spattered and soaked parchment when I did
see it first. John ! Benedict ! Another flagon here ;
by all ourselves, another flagon ! "

Harold sank back exhausted, with a jar at his lips,
which Antwilder had crossly given. There was small
prospect of the worthy prior's speaking again that night.
But the listener, Franklin, had heard enough to set his
eyes alight. What had not been said, he guessed. A
letter had come for Anthony, which Harold received,
and had not given to its owner. Whether that missive
were, indeed, unreadable, as Harold intimated, it was

138

impossible to tell. But Franklin was satisfied — quite
satisfied. He would yet have his revenge on the man
who had lured Philip from his side, and made his work
in the chantry heavy triple-fold. So, with a broad
smile on his twisted features, he made his way back to
the stairs, and ascended them once more, to return to
the shaving-house; while, long ere the tonsure of the
last monk had grown white under Benedict's swift steel,
Harold, the prior of this famous and sacred retreat, lay
upon the earthen floor of the cellar, amorously clasp
ing, in his two helpless arms, a mighty flagon of slowly
dribbling mead.

Anthony ! Poor Anthony ! Had he only been at
Franklin's side, what long hours of woe might have
been spared to him ! But, just at this moment, Mas
ter Anthony's lot was cast in a place by no means
unpleasant.

Philip had spoken truly; the miracle had come to
pass ; the Glastonbury thorn was in blossom. As yet
its flowers were scarcely more than half-open buds, —
exquisite things, delicately perfumed, and lightly veined
in brown, as all thorn-blossoms are. The old .tree stirred
a little in the wind, that seemed not one half so chilly
when playing about its sturdy branches. And before
the tree, her hair, like its leaves, caressed by the
breeze, stood another flower, — a child of the meadows,
Philip's pure-hearted pupil, Mary. She might, not
sacrilegiously, have been christened Notre Dame des
Champs. She was, indeed, the familiar spirit of that
valley, near to which, upon the Longland farm, she had
dwelt through her whole life. Tall, sturdy, straight of
figure and round of limb was Mary. The poise of her
head was such as went with the entire freedom that had
always been hers, and which had known nothing of
companionship loftier than herself. This dignity of at
titude, all unconscious though it was, was truly remark
able. Her heavy hair was of a dark brown, and fell

Conjure anD C^orn 139

loosely about her shoulders ; her eyes were large and
dark, and as expressive as those of the wild creatures
among which she loved to be ; her nose and mouth
were good in line, self-reliant in character; and her
hands were small, delicately formed, with strong fingers,
deft at any out-of-door work, but awkward enough
at the loom or the tambour-frame. Her manner was
peculiar, being neither forward nor shy, but intense
and unconscious, even when Philip's glowing eyes
were fixed upon her, holding her stronger nature
spellbound in wonder of the quaint weakness of his
character.

At this very moment, while Mary stood at the thorn-
tree, gathering some of its flowers into a basket woven
of reeds, she was waiting for the young monk, and look
ing forward to her reading-lesson. In her heart there
was not a thought of the feeling called love, for this
Philip ; but — would two sober, middle-aged people, or
even two youths or two maids, have chosen such a spot,
at such a season, to come together to indulge in the
pleasure of a difficult task? And Mary waited neither
vainly nor long. When, however, she at last perceived
and recognized the usual dark-robed figure coming
swiftly toward her over the fields, she drew back
apace, frightened, for Philip was not alone. Mary did
not run away. Inarticulate instinct made her feel that
such a thing would put her action in coming here in
the light of something stealthy and wrong. . Such she
had never felt her intercourse with Philip to be, though
she, as well as he, knew that it was against the abbey
rule. Thus she stood awaiting the two, motionless, but
with her eyes fixed in unconscious interest upon An
thony's face. Fitz-Hubert was also closely examining
her, from the little distance which still separated them.
Their glances crossed, and before his shining, green-
black orbs, hers fell.

When the three met, Philip did not so much as touch

140

her hand, saluting her only with the monkish shibboleth,
eagerly pronounced, " Pax tecum," then slowly adding,
" Mary." Anthony stood unobtrusively in the back
ground, until Philip turned, laid a hand upon his shoul
der, and spoke again :

" Mary, this is my brother. Anthony hight he, and
he cometh of a race that is noble, far higher than yours
or mine. He came to see thee, and the Glastonbury
thorn." Thus awkwardly did Philip conclude, suddenly
becoming ill at ease with his responsibility in the
matter.

Once more Mary looked up at Anthony, forgetting
her odd courtesy in trying vaguely to fathom the smile
which she saw flickering in his eyes.

" And the thorn, indeed, is wondrous beautiful.
None the less hath Philip put it at sorry disadvantage
in letting me see it first with you beside it, ma demoi
selle," responded Anthony immediately, carried back,
for the moment, to Windsor.

Then, indeed, Mary made her genuflection, but only
because of the melody of his voice. It was just three
months afterward that the meaning of that compliment
dawned upon her. It came to Philip next morning;
but then, he was a lover, and he had an ounce or so of
French blood in his veins.

Now, while Anthony pulled down a white, full-laden
bough to examine and to toy with, his eyes were still
fixed, perhaps unconscious of their deep interest, upon
the womanly face, which was not pretty in profile.
Philip produced his Latin manuscript, and Mary went
to him, unaffectedly, to look at it. Her words, as she
began to read, were far more hesitating than usual, for
she was timid in Anthony's presence. Philip, as she
went on, became depressed with the thought that An
thony might believe his pupil dull, and himself but a
poor teacher ; or that he might put a worse construction
on the matter, and fancy that they had devoted but

Conjsure anti C^orn

little of their time together to work. His thoughts were
written in his mobile face, and Anthony read them, the
first moment that he turned to look upon his friend.
Thereupon, going a little closer to the two, he glanced
over Philip's shoulder upon the manuscript, exclaiming:
. " On my soul, Philip, the damp and cold of the scrip
torium have given thy hand a cramp ! Thy writing is
wondrous crabbed. Verily, Mary hath a skilful eye to
distinguish such lettering. Methinks I could scarce
read it at all."

" Perchance that is true," said Philip, eagerly. " The
scriptorium hath been chill of late. But that thou
couldst not read it is not so. I know thy skill. I
prithee take it and read it to us both. I have told
Mary of the noonday readings, and 'twill be a lesson
to us to hear thee. This, as thou seest, is a poem, in
the Latin tongue, upon the legend of the thorn. I had
thought the metre went right trippingly when I 'did
compose it."

Anthony, smiling at his unselfish modesty, took the
glowing sheet of parchment from Philip's hand, and,
scarcely seeming to take his eyes from Mary's face,
read the quaint verses, the prototype of their author's
dreamy imagination, in his usual liquid tone, with here
and there a purposeful stumble. Even then Anthony
perceived that Mary understood but little of it all.
Possibly her mind was not on it to-day ; but, however
it might be, she was not stupid. Remember the days
in which she lived, and the generations of absolute
ignorance which came before and after her; -days in
which people, and women especially, could oftentimes
not write their own names, much less read what any
other soul had written. Anthony found the girl less
dull than he had expected ; for there was a sympathetic
light in her eyes that meant more than the few words
which she spoke after his voice had fallen for the last
time. " I thank thee for the reading — s — sir. I

142

would fain hear thy voice again, at some time, in some
few chapters of Boethius, which I know better than
other manuscripts."

Then, turning to Philip, she received the poem from
his hand and placed it on top of the flowers in her bas
ket, saying, as she did so : "I can stay no longer to-day.
Tis full cold, and besides, my father rides to Bristol
on the morrow, and would have these blossoms fresh to
take with him. They will wither an I leave them long
tumbled together. On Sunday I will come again,
perchance."

Philip made no effort to detain her, saying only, in
answer to her last phrase : " I will await thee here, on
Sunday, at this hour. Wilt bring the poem once more
back with thee ? "

" Verily, yes. By that time I shall have spelt it out
aright, that I may read it for thee something better than
to-day."

" God speed you."

" Farewell."

There was a faint, hesitating smile toward Anthony,
who only bowed and did not speak, and then she was
running across the moor, toward the abbey walls at the
northwest.

The two men watched her go, in silence, thoughtfully.
Philip's face was grave, but his eyes glowed. A smile
still lingered upon Anthony's lips, but there was no
smile, and yet no sorrow, in his heart. When the
younger man turned at last with a faint sigh, Anthony
looked into his face. " She is true at heart, and good
to look upon, and one who loves beauty," he said.
"But thou, O Philip, 'tis well that thou wert born
a monk, and not a courtier."

" And why, Anthony?" he asked wonderingly, but
with a tinge of suspicion in his voice.

"Thou art too good and too susceptible for both,
Philip ; but as a lover thou wert, indeed, impossible. "

Conjure anti CIjonT 143

Philip looked at him. "Judge not so lightly, An
thony. Mistake me not. God knows that I can love ! "
And though the last word was faint, it was not so doubt
fully spoken but that Anthony, in surprise, glanced
searchingly into his eyes, to find there more than he
had had reason to expect.

Silently they moved back again, side by side, toward
their prison-house ; and Anthony still absently caressed
the flower that he had plucked from the thorn-tree
of Saint Joseph.

CHAPTER VIII

THE DAWN OF HOPE

DURING the past three months of Anthony's life at
the abbey, it had become his habit to spend most
of his leisure time in loneliness at the chapel upon
Tower Hill. Through the short winter afternoons, when
no field work was to be done, about three hours were
his own to waste ; and, Saint Michael's being somewhat
too holy a place for the brethren to resort to when
their ordered prayers were over, Anthony's solitude was
not interrupted. He never prayed, nor held even a
religious thought while there ; but certainly the chapel
was a well-chosen place for meditation. Situated upon
the very summit of a lofty hill whose slopes were
bathed in the purest of Somerset air and sunlight, one's
eyes could easily traverse the intervening lands to
follow the shining course of the river Brue down to its
ending in the blue waters of Bristol Channel, twenty
miles away. To the northwest, at no great distance,
rose the towers of Wells Cathedral ; and again, a little
farther, the monk might even see the ford at which
three months of acute misery for him had been com
passed by a horse's misstep, a rider's lax hand, and a
parchment too little protected from the possibility of
water. Following the same direction still, till vision
was repulsed by a group of shadowy hills, one knew
that just beyond lay Bristol City — that spot to which
Anthony's eyes ever returned, toward which, once, he
had stretched out his arms in a passion of rebellion,
then let them drop again, helpless, at his sides, acknowl
edging his impotence.

2&aton of Jpope 145

It was here that Anthony, never dreaming that he
was watched, day after day abandoned himself to his
emotions, or forgot his tmhappiness in sleep. One
afternoon in January, when he had closed his eyes upon
the present, and dreams had led him back to Canterbury,
to Alexander, to that cathedral wherein he had been
almost happy, he was roused in a totally unlooked-
for way. Reginald's pretty face was before his mental
vision ; then there came the murmur of a delicate voice
in his ears, and, finally, a fearful touch upon his knee.
Anthony was a light sleeper. His weary, dark eyes fell
instantly open. He rose. Mary stood at his side.

Now that she had really awakened him, she was afraid
of having done so, and drew backward, her eyes falling
before his. Her long brown hair had been roughly
tumbled by the wind ; her homespun kirtle was quite
short, leaving her bare ankles and the feet shod in
wood and leather plainly visible. This was not
poverty, but fashion.

When Anthony had thoughtfully regarded her for
a moment, he said, with indifferent kindness : " Thou
hadst best come into the chapel, Mary. The wind
about the hilltop here is fierce enow."

She followed him inside obediently, then stood un
easily avoiding his expectant look.

" I see thee here often," she said at length.

" That is not strange, if you care to look for me," he
responded.

Evidently there was no help for her. " And so —
and so, seeing that thou wert ever alone, I was bold
enough to come to thee, to make my confession, sith I
have not now been absolved for many months, my father
riding with me but seldom to Wells."

"Confess to me, Mary? Why, I am no priest. I
have authority of absolution over but one person in the
world," Anthony answered in surprise, and, withal,
smiling bitterly at his last words.

10

2Jncanoni?eU

Mary was silent for a moment or two, lost in thought.
" How is it that thou hast power of absolution over one
person and over none other? Methinks if thou art
holy enow to shrive one of her sins thou hast power
for all."

Anthony fixed his eyes upon her now with more
interest than he had ever shown before. Looking
searchingly into her face, he tried to fathom the depth
of the understanding which she had just revealed.
Continually he was baffled by the curious light which
met him in the large eyes that opened, limpidly, to his.
With a sigh he seated himself upon the step of the
chancel, his hands clasped behind him, his face raised
to her who stood before him. She was wondering a
little, but happy, in having attained the object which
she would scarcely have confessed to herself, much less
to him, — that of hearing his voice again. At length
Anthony lowered his eyes, in thought, to the floor;
and, hand on chin, spoke thoughtfully, half to her, half
to himself:

" Mary, you believe that the priests to whom you have
been wont to confess your sins were born as you were,
of woman ? "

" Certes," was the answer, indifferently given.

"You believe that they also may have sinned, at
some time?"

" Doubtless they did. Verily, they be human, I do
suppose, and thus confessed unto each other and were
absolved."

" And were they so much greater in mind, in body,
in understanding, than other people that none tfther,
thy father, perhaps, could e'er have hoped to vie with
them even after years upon years of training? "

" Nay, nay, indeed, Father Anthony ! Thinkest thou
my father is a foolish dotard? "

" Call me not ' Father ' in thy speech, Mary, and be
not offended where no offence was meant, I pray you."

^aton of ^ope 147

" I crave pardon," was the humble answer.

"Then the father confessor, to whom you brought
all your human follies, and weaknesses, and fear (you
being in great terror of those punishments which it had
been told you that an unshriven soul must endure),
that he might wash them from you by a word, and
make you clean before God Almighty, this man whom
the Church does vest with the very power of that God
which he pretends to worship as supreme, who dares
reprove and punish you, and such as you, for sins, is
but a man, a human, a brother to the rest of us, mayhap
weaker, and lower, and far less good than we. Ah !
what are such creatures that they should presume to
judge that which God alone can know? How can they
absolve one far above them in spirit and matter from
confessed sin? Christianity, methinks, hath driven the
world mad, that it should foster such dogmas ! Soul of
Socrates the mighty, of Christ of Judea ! didst in
deed come into the world for this — that the iron
power of papal terror might press the souls of its
people till they are twisted into horrible deformity of
belief? O thou Eternal Spirit! have pity upon my
misery ! Have pity upon thy children ! "

Physically exhausted, mentally startled at his own
useless vehemence, the real meaning of which lay not
within the comprehension or knowledge of the girl
before him, Anthony's arms fell ; he sank again to the
chancel step, his head drooped to his breast. Mary
herself was trembling with the emotion caught from his
fire. With one strain of her mind she had followed his
speech intently, and, moreover, her astounded intellect
had grasped something of his heresy. He, his head
sunk in his hands, was suffering the reaction of passion,
and had let his mind fall back into the memory of that
old injustice of his father's, which, by the ruin of his
life, had so imbittered his religious ideas. He forgot
her, till her words roused him

148

" ' Tis well that none but me heard thee, Anthony."

He was suddenly become human to her now, and she
had no hesitation in addressing him as she did Philip.

"Ay," he answered thoughtfully. "Doubtless I
should have been excommunicated."

"And would e'en that not fright you? "

He looked quickly into her face on hearing the tone
of sadness and anxiety. "Trouble thyself not over my
state of soul, Mary," he said, with the flicker of a
smile passing over his lips, "but tell me if thou art
still resolved upon the confessional."

Her expression did not change, but her tone, when
she answered, was singularly intense. " How could I
know my soul's safety an I confessed not? But I
would confess to thee — only to thee — to none other."

He heard her with displeasure, not knowing what a
depth her words covered. "Already have I told thee
that that cannot be. I am empowered to confess but
one. Rome would not consider thy confession to me
as aught but one more sin necessary for absolution by
a priest."

"I think not — of Rome," she said, with a catch in
her breath.

He looked at the country maid with amazement.
Her persistence was certainly original. Her purpose
he could not fathom, but the rare stubbornness he did
not dislike.

"Well, then, Mary, I accept thy word; and most
sternly will I hold thee to it. Confess to me and to
none other — ever. " He rose abruptly. " But there is
no time for that now. Already the bell ringeth for
nones. Come to me again, Mary, and fear no arduous
penances. Nay — the most sacred things thou shalt
not even tell."

" The — the other — she whom you may confess ? "
she asked.

" A princess — whom I shall never see, " he responded

J^aton of ^ope 149

coldly. Then, picking up his torch, he disappeared
without another word down the dark mouth of the
long underground passage leading to the abbey, not
wholly pleased with Mary's new manner, which seemed
like forwardness; disturbed also by the thought that
his solitude here might, henceforth, be broken at any
time by the presence of a woman.

Mary still stood in the chapel where he had left her,
a chaotic tumult of emotion in her breast, thinking no
longer of the fierce heresy of his words, but rather of
the last hopeless sentence, "A princess," —then, with
a rare light breaking over her face, — "and one that
he will never see! "

Long days and endless weeks went by, and Mary
ascended the Tower Hill sometimes, to confess to the
man who had come into her life. Then, to her instinc
tive anger and shame, he stopped his frequent visits to
the hill, going there only at long intervals. Winter
was over, and spring came in with March. That month
advanced apace, till its raw nights were contrasted
with mild noons, and work in the abbey fields was
begun again.

The evening of March twenty-eighth was Saturday,
and consequently a night of confessional and special
Aves at the abbey. At a quarter after eight compline
was still in progress; and Anthony, kneeling in the
last row of full-vowed brethren, was striving to turn
his thoughts from useless unhappiness by watching, as
was his ancient custom, the play of the candle-light
over Philip's bright hair. His efforts were finally so
successful that he failed to hear the opening of the
outer door, and the rapid steps that passed and returned
by the corridor. That was but a lay brother; and not
a monk turned his head. But when a murmured mes
sage was delivered in the vestibulum, and then the
jingle of chain armor and the heavy tread of spurred
feet came echoing toward them, there was a general

150

lifting of eyes, a. craning of necks, and a perceptible
increase in the speed of responses.

Compline ended, and the fathers gat them to their
confessionals. Still a number of the brethren lingered
about the doors, waiting in hopes of the possible arrival
of Harold, or at least the approach of old William
Lorrimer, from whom might be learned the title of the
stranger. Anthony alone sat in a dim corner, talking
in whispers with Philip, and seemingly taking no in
terest in the advent of the visitor. This appearance
was not so much affectation as a great struggle to crush
back the half-roused hope that would sometimes slum
ber but never die within his breast.

Presently, however, there was a little stir in the arch
of the corridor, caused by the advent of one of the
prior's attendants, who stopped still to look about the
chapel. Finally, discovering what he sought, he called
out loudly:

" Ha ! Brother Anthony ! Thou of Canterbury !
Come thou here. Harold bids thee haste to him after
confessional, which, indeed, thou must hurry through,
sith a knight would speak with thee who is to depart
erelong. "

Anthony rose and came forward, his knees shaking,
and his heart palpitating uncomfortably. His voice,
however, he managed to steady. " Tell the prior that
I will come as he bids, when confessional is ended."

Staring a little at the indifference of tone, the lay-
brother nodded and went back to Harold. Anthony,
however, to the profound amazement of the monks,
made no haste to the confessional. Indeed, he was
among the very last to rise from his knees beside the
wooden lattice. He left the chapel without a word
to Philip, and took the longest way round to the prior's
rooms. He moved very slowly, that he might regain
something of his self-possession. It was a message
from De Burgh that he expected. Concerning its im-

of f ope 151

port he did not speculate. Arrived at Harold's room,
he was admitted at once, and found himself, within,
facing one of De Burgh's most trusted men-at-arms.
To Harold's surprise, this messenger, at Anthony's
entrance, bowed low before him, showing in his
greeting every mark of respect.

" Good-even to you, Richard. 'T is some time since
we met. All is well with my lord? "

"Excellently well, an it please you, sir."

Again Harold stared.

" Thou hast, perchance, some missive for me ? "

" Nay; I have no letter. I was bidden to speak with
you privily."

Anthony hesitated for a moment, and saw Harold,
with an unaccountably relieved expression, move toward
the door. The prior, to tell the truth, was uneasy
under the memory of that letter received months ago,
and never put, even in its unreadable condition, into
the hands of him to whom it was addressed. His fear
lest mention should be made of this in his presence
was great. But Anthony knew nothing of it, and at
Richard's suggestion he raised his brows.

"Well, speak on. There will be naught that the
prior may not hear. My lord hath not paid me so
much attention in the last months that he may expect
my reverence unchanged."

So Harold, fraught with nearly as much curiosity as
uneasiness, remained; and Richard, a dull-witted fel
low, faithful, and accustomed only to obedience toward
his master's intimates, spoke without more delay.

" My lord would have you to set forth on the mor
row, which is Sunday, at sunrise, toward Bristol town.
There he bids you inquire out the Falcon Hostelrie,
where you may rest, and where he will see you. On
Monday, after the noon meal, you shall repair to Bris
tol Castle, where you are awaited. An my lord see
you not on Sunday, he will assuredly be ready to re-

152

ceive you at the inn on Monday, after curfew. On
Tuesday you will return hither."

"And if De Burgh fail his tryst upon both days,
Sunday and Monday," inquired the monk, after a long
and thoughtful pause, "what then?"

"He will not fail." replied the henchman, stolidly.

"Where bides he'now?"

" At Dunster Castle. He leaveth his charge there
to join the King at Windsor, whither he hath been
summoned to a council of King's gentlemen, concern
ing the Interdict."

" Interdict ! What mean you? "

Richard stared at him open-mouthed, while Harold,
glad to take some part in the conversation, answered
with hasty importance: "'Tis an Interdict from Inno
cent at Rome, to be laid over all England, until the
King shall come to recognize Stephen as Archbishop of
Canterbury."

"Ah! the old injustice!"

"Thou shalt not find wrong in his Holiness," cried
Harold, hotly, while the man-at-arms looked on with
interest.

Anthony made no answer to this, save a cold stare at
the prior. Then, after an instant, he turned to him
again. " You have heard the command of Hubert de
Burgh," he said. "After lauds, on the morrow, I
must needs depart for Bristol."

The prior was silent. He was greatly irritated with
the presumption of this common monk, and he would
have liked very well to forbid Anthony's departure.
Quite this, however, he dared not do. Anthony,
comprehending his thought, turned again to the
messenger.

"Go you to join De Burgh ? "

" I ride to-night to Bridgewater, where I shall assur
edly see him ere he reaches Bristol."

"Then tell him that, an death spare me till to-

2E>at»n of ^ope 153

morrow's curfew, I will do his pleasure. Now fare
you well, sith you ride on to-night."

"Ay, an it please you, sir," responded the man,
saluting; and the monk then left the room.

Upon reaching his cell in the dormitory above,
Anthony found his cresset lighted, and Philip, who
was breaking a stringent rule, seated before his table,
eagerly awaiting him. Fitz-Hubert entered quietly and
closed the door. From the next cell came the reassur
ing sound of Peter Turner's masterly snores. As his
friend came in, Philip jumped to his feet.

"Ah, Anthony! Well art thou come at last. Now
tell me if thy heart's desire hath been brought to thee?
Who was the stranger knight? Perchance my Lord de
Burgh himself? Thou seest I am filled with curiosity!
Prithee, tell me all, and quickly."

"Verily, thou 'rt more like a woman than a monk or
a man, Philip."

" Are women curious ? "

Anthony laughed, and then answered the first ques
tions. "T is true, indeed, my brother. To-night has
brought me new hope of life. Ah, Philip! Too long
hast thou been a monk to feel, as do I, the horror
of this death in life ! Or else thy nature is different
from mine. 'Tis more that, methinks. But now,
sith this message hath really come, I do begin to
wonder how it is that long ago I had not been driven
to madness, by very helpless inaction. De Burgh ! —
De Burgh ! Who so well knewest me and my father,
both! That thou — thou — couldst so long have left
me to rot here in this — "

" Nay, nay, Anthony ! Speak not like this ! Come,
I must leave thee presently. Sit here, and tell what
thou art going to do."

Philip had risen in alarm at the growing .abandon of
Anthony's manner, and now, laying his persistent
hands upon his friend's arm, he forced him to sit down

154

upon his pallet, where, under the influence of Philip's
unselfish interest, the other's emotion died out and he
grew calm again. He spoke now with a different sort
of animation.

"Philip, I have learned to-night that an Interdict is
to be pronounced upon England — only because of the
King's firmness."

"Oh, ay. I know of it," returned the other, un
guardedly.

"Thou, Philip? How didst thou learn the news?"

"It hath been much discussed in the abbey."

"None spoke of it with me." This last was uttered
in a tone so peculiar that Philip started and looked at
him.

"I — I — had not thought to speak of it — to thee,"
he stammered uncomfortably. "Thou knowest that
thou 'it so different from the rest, Anthony — thou art
so much alone — • the brothers feel it ofttimes. Thou
seemest above them. Even to me thou 'rt scarce a
monk."

Anthony rose slowly from his place, and on his face
was at last unveiled all the majesty of the bitter loneli
ness which he had suffered so long and so silently.
When he turned upon Philip his words dropped mo
notonously from his lips.

"Thou hast transgressed enow for the night, Philip.
It were better that we slept. I depart after lauds on
the morrow."

There was neither farewell nor good-night. An
thony raised his hand, ready to extinguish the candle
in the lantern. His manner was impassively expec
tant. With an overpowering, conscience-stricken sense
of pity in his heart, which refused to come to his lips
in intelligible words, Philip rose, stretched one hand
out impulsively to his brother, and then, under the
steady glance of the black eyes that burned upon
him, he went sadly out into the empty corridor. A

J^atun of f ope 155

moment later the cell that he had left was black. The
monk donned his night-clothes in the darkness. But
could Anthony's open eyes have served the purpose of
a lantern, a dozen monks might have read by their
light, unceasingly, until matins.

In the raw darkness of a March morning, Sabbath
lauds, extended by an extra Psalm, ended drearily.
The monks poured out of the damp chapel, and all
save a very few hurried into the day-room, to warm
themselves for a moment at the grateful fire there,
before the bell should toll for the reading-hour. The
few who were willing to forego this luxury were the
curious ones who had gathered peepingly near to
the chantry door, beyond which Anthony, ready for
his ride, stood talking inaudibly with the prior.

A lay-brother glided noiselessly in from the vesti
bule. "Thy horse waits," he announced.

At once Anthony started toward the outer door, his
heart beginning to beat high. A moment more and
he had scrambled upon the back of the good black
steed, which had seen heavy service since last he rode
it; and, hampered though he was by skirts of sack
cloth, sat in the saddle with the poise of a nobleman,
while he gathered up the reins.

" See that you fast throughout the day, and forget
not the Aves and Pater Nosters at the shrines," bawled
Harold. But Anthony did not heed the cry. With a
cut upon his horse's neck, and a word in the pointed,
black ear, he was off at a swinging gallop, out and
away through the open gate, past the walls of his prison,
giving never a thought to the twenty pairs of envious
eyes fastened upon him from the door that he had left.

Free from Glastonbury, if only for a day ! Oh, the
rare intoxication of that thought! And quickly upon
it came the memory of the other departure, now more
than eight months past, when he had turned his back

156

to the east and strained his eyes to the setting sun.
The scene was different enough to-day. No mature,
dusty foliage, and hot dew, and drooping, odorous
midsummer flowers, but something as fair, it seemed
to him who beheld it so eagerly — the promise of
spring ! For spring was dawning in southern Eng
land. Though the sun was yet scarcely a hand's
breadth up the horizon, though the morning air was
damply cold, and not a leaf could be seen on the trees
in the forest, there was a hint of rare softness in the
breeze that soon he could feel upon his cheek, as it
came swishing idly northward from the southern dells
of Devon. The branches of the trees in the wood
which Anthony skirted were no longer outlined against
the pale sky in gaunt, black nudity. They were
blurred, veiled, and feathery with the most delicate of
swelling buds, among which swallows sat lazily swing
ing, thinking of love and of nests to be built, that the
lengthening May days might see a great brood of eager-
mouthed children waiting to be fed. And upon the
muddy black of newly furrowed fields lay also a hazy
shadow of pale grayish-green, and this too was a
promise. Before eight o'clock the last shred of half
hearted frost had melted from the tangled undergrowth,
and the sun, long clear of the tree-tops, poured in a
yellow flood over the out-buildings of the Longland
farm, which stretched its fertile fields for four miles
on either side of the Bristol road.

Anthony had been riding slowly enough. He had a
comfortable notion in his head, and, besides, was in
no hurry to finish his easy journey to the city that
morning. The fresh, free air came joyously to his
nostrils. His eyes, less sunken than they had looked
for months, though he knew it not, were longingly
seeking out those small signs of coming beauty which
friendly nature gladly exhibited to so devoted a stu
dent. Two shrines had he already passed without ever

J&attn of J^ope 157

a Pater Noster, save those of unwarranted happiness,
which rose continually from his heart to his lips.
And so he approached that rude farmhouse in which
dwelt Philip's lady of the fields. Lo, as he anxiously
scanned the spacious yard in which cackled two or
three dozen good hens, together with their lords of
the comb, a short-kirtled figure stepped quickly out
of the hut. It was Mary, who, as she saw the monk,
ran hastily down to the road, at the side of which the
horseman had drawn rein.

"Anthony! Indeed thou 'It be welcome! But I —
how is it that thou 'rt here? We knew not that — "

" Perchance- it is that I have turned farmerer, Mary,
and am come in place of Master Antwilder," he said,
regarding her smilingly.

" An that were so " — she began with eager pleasure
in her voice, but a pleasure which quickly turned to
doubt — "nay; Master Joseph rides never on the Sab
bath day — "

"True enow. Verily, I had forgot the day in mine
happiness," he cried gayly. "Nay, Mary, to tell thee
truly, 'twas not to thy father and his men that I was
riding; but, now that I see thee, wilt grant me an
indulgence? Master Harold did send me off fasting
for the good of my soul, which will, I warrant me, be
soon most direfully blackened by blasphemy, an I go
hungry longer. So, for the saving of me, I do beg
thee, as a charitable maid, for one horn of milk, a
smile from thy lips, and then, lastly, silence concern
ing my unholiness!"

Mary looked at him contemplatively. Was this
indeed the Anthony of Saint Michael's on the Tower?
this lively young monk the sombre, dull-eyed, middle-
aged man of the other days? His speech she answered
only with her long look; then, turning, went into the
house, from which she presently came back with the
horn of milk and a piece of black bread. Anthony

158

drank with great satisfaction, but put the bread into his
pouch.

"This I will keep, Mary, for my noon meal. Now
for the second of my wants — a smile from thee, to
speed me on my way. "

But Mary's face was very serious as once more she
looked into his face. " I will keep the secret of thy
unholiness. Whither goest thou ? "

"Ah ! that is no secret, mistress. I ride to Bristol,
to my friend, De Burgh, and — to the unknown princess. "

So, by the magic of that last word having banished
even the thought of the peasant's smile, Anthony
spoke to his horse, and was off again, lost in a strange
revery, and never knowing that behind him he left a
heavy heart and two eyes so blurred with a strange
mist that they could hardly see his figure, after which
they gazed till the winding road hid him from sight.

CHAPTER IX

INTERDICT

TWO hours of twilight still remained when
Anthony, on that Sunday evening, entered the
yard of the Falcon Hostelrie at Bristol. The
stables were by no means empty, nor was the inn
void of guests and city idlers, come for an evening of
gossip and mead. In a Catholic country Sunday is for
recreation and rest; which two words, very probably,
mean much the same thing. A score of curious eyes
were turned upon him as the monk slipped down from
his horse and gave the animal into a hostler's care.
For, though a monk was certainly no strange sight in
such a place, one of the dress of the Benedictine clois
ter, and mounted upon a black charger, instead of a lean
mule, was not so ordinary a spectacle. The little sen
sation was increased, moreover, when the landlord of
the inn met Anthony at the door of his house, and,
with unusual obsequiousness, inquired his name.

"Anthony Fitz-Hubert," responded the monk, reluc
tantly, annoyed at the looks cast at him by those seated
within.

"Thank you, sir." Anthony glanced at him curi
ously. " I ventured to ask, sith a room hath already
been prepared for you, and I wait your bidding con
cerning your evening's entertainment."

" By whose order hath a room been made ready for
me? Methinks thou art mistaken, Sir Landlord. "

" Nay, verily, Sir Anthony, 't is thou who art pleased
to jest. The messenger from my Lord de Burgh rode
through the city this morning, leaving the order."

160 C3ncanoni?eti

" Then De Burgh is not yet here ? " inquired Anthony,
quickly.

" Nay. He and his train rest here to-morrow, on
their way from Dunster to London town."

"That is well, then. May it please you, direct me
to my room."

Anthony's lodging was one of the most sumptuous
which the inn afforded. Evidently De Burgh had
taken the greatest pains to provide for his welfare.
"And, indeed, 't is time he showed some consideration,
though in good truth much display of my name pleases
me not," thought the monk, as at length he was seated
before a meal which bore slight resemblance to that
prescribed as fitly lenten by Harold of Glastonbury.
Of the well-cooked meats, and rich, long-untasted
wines, the erstwhile courtier partook in great content,
and with never a thought for the good of his soul, save
the remembrance of a certain pagan remark made by
Epictetus the great.

For his peace of mind it was very well that he had
chosen to dine in the solitude of his room. Two
strangers had entered the inn below, demanding rooms,
which could not be given them. It was necessary that
they should seek another and less frequented place in
which to stay ; but, ere they departed to one such, near
at hand, the smaller of the two had carelessly inquired
after the arrival of a certain monk, one Fitz-Hubert of
Glastonbury.

" Certes. He is here. Would ye have speech with
him?" asked the landlord's son, a clownish fellow,
without great good sense.

"Nay, nay, 'twas but curiosity," was the quick
reply as the two departed.

These new-comers were monks, and, oddly enough,
from Glastonbury. One of them was named Eustace
Comyn, the other Joseph Antwilder. And their business
in Bristol at this time — was an abbey secret.

161

On the morning of Monday, March thirtieth, a his
toric day, Anthony broke his fast in the somewhat
disorderly public-room of the hostel. The dining-
room of the Falcon was also its reception-room and its
drinking place; for the ground floors of hotels in those
days were not given to wasted suites of common par
lors. This was a place where no lady would ever seat
herself, though many such had lodged in the inn.
Here were always men, of one degree or another, sit
ting at table, standing in the doorway, or perhaps lying
helplessly supine upon the rush-strewn floor. A foul
and noisome thing was this floor, upon which branches
were never changed, but only kicked out to be renewed
when filth and vermin had so rotted them that even
thirteenth-century hardihood could endure no more.

As Anthony entered the place, he drew his monkish
skirts up about his limbs and walked lightly over the
putrefying mass of leaves, branches, scraps of food, and
thick dregs of wine or ale, about which, even at this
season, buzzed a swarm of flies which scarcely heeded
him as he seated himself at the table. Early as was
the hour, one or two soldiers, a mendicant friar, and a
pair of itinerant magicians or peddlers were seated in
the room at breakfast. They looked up for a moment
when Anthony entered, distantly saluting the black
friar as he sat down. Then the general, good-natured
conversation was renewed. There seemed to be an
argument in progress as to the " whereabouts of the
King.

"I tell thee," exclaimed a soldier, pounding vigor
ously on the table, and speaking in an extremely mild
tone, "the King is in the northwest, preparing another
blow for the Lion.1 Not a fortnight agone did I hear
it, from one of the suite of the Earl of Clare, who
was even then hastening to his aid."

"Nay, nay," interposed the friar. "John hath

1 William, King of Scotland, nicknamed the " Lion."
ii

162

crossed into Normandy, where he is once more to be
waited on by the bishops at Rouen. The word came
from Jocelyn of Bath himself."

" What need be there of more councils, forsooth, now
that his Holiness hath ta' en the matter up?" queried
one of the peddlers.

The black friar crossed himself. " Alack ! " he mur
mured, sighing, " it pleaseth his Holiness to punish
England for the baseness of England's King."

" ' Sblood, but 't is no baseness ! " shouted the soldier.
"Think you that John hath not had enow to try him,
what with monk, bishop, cardinal, pope, half his own
barons, and all of France continually in arms against
him ? Baseness ! — Ugh ! — these priests — " he ended
in a snarl, having suddenly discovered Anthony's glit
tering eyes upon him in wrath, he supposed, though in
truth they had the appearance of amusement.

"We go to Saint Peter's this morn, to hear the Bull
read," announced the second of the clowns, cheerily.

Again the stout friar sighed, but left off his pious
gesture as Anthony quickly asked, —

" Is the Interdict to be pronounced to-day? "

All the guests looked up to stare at so strange a
question from a person of such lofty manners. The
landlord showed his long experience with many men by
being first to recover manner and voice. " Yes, an it
please you, sir. The papal anathema is to be pro
nounced over England to-day; and will be read in
Bristol City this morning, at eleven of the dial, in
Saint Peter's Cathedral, which is in the great square,
not far from here, in the southeast part of the town,
next to the castle wall."

With a slight nod of thanks for this exhaustive infor
mation, the monk silently resumed his meal, his
thoughts now fully occupied with the news, and the
opportunity that was open to him. He would be pres
ent at the reading of the Interdict.

163

Tt was indeed upon the noon of this Monday, March
30, 1208, that the most cruel punishment within the
papal power was to be laid over a realm whose king
had dared to defy a command from Rome. And to
those who look back down the narrowing vista of past
centuries, it is difficult to grasp comprehensively the
situation in which, for eight years/ England was now
to lie.

Owing to imperative necessity, the laws which gov
erned the fulfilment of this Christian punishment were
flexible, and but seldom carried out to the letter; for
the simple reason that humanity, taken even as a body,
has an actual limit of endurance, and beyond this limit
a completely claused Interdict passed. While under
the ban, a nation was absolutely forbidden measures
of the most elementary sanitation, and the oldest
customs of society. No dead could be buried in
consecrated ground, and service over a body was pro
hibited. Marriages were not allowed. Absolution
was not to be had save by special indulgence. Neither
baptism nor christening might take place. No church
was open for public service. The Almonry of the
monastery, the only hope of relief for the poor, in
those days, was not required to do its work; while of
all the offices that the myriad clergy were paid to per
form, extreme unction to the dying was the single one
that was permitted. Thus a people whose lives, from
birth till death, were interwoven, enclosed, bound up,
entirely centred in the functions and superstitions of
their religion, were totally deprived of the marrow,
bones, and muscle of their spiritual and mental
existence. Would humanity bear all this? Nay.
Before its actual experience a people never imagined
its horrors; else would soldier and gallant never have
been seen laughing and love-dreaming side by side
upon that fatal Monday of the passion week of 1208.

Anthony, thinking of these things and of others, rose

164

at last from his morning meal, and, with the barest sign
to his fellow-monk in the corner, and a lofty disregard
alike for the soldiers near by and the ogling wench
at the door, hied him out of the inn and down the
thronging street of Bristol town. A narrow, wind
ing, dirty highway it was; the street itself nothing but
trampled mud at this season. On either side of it rose
crooked houses of wood, thatched with straw, bearing
here and there upon their walls, perhaps, a rough
statue of Mary Mother, and beneath her a small stone
basin, which, filled with oil and a floating rag, served
at night to make a greasy, flickering spot of light in
the dense darkness of the way.

This morning was gray, damp, and cheerless enough
even for early spring in England. The people who
moved through the town, though bright in their holi
day dress, had small look of happiness about them, and
appeared undecided as to the expression that they
ought to wear. To them, poor souls, his Holiness, the
Pope, was a very distant personage, who dressed ever
in cloth of gold, and continually carried in his hands
rich largesse for paupers. How, then, should anything
very terrible come to them from him, and from that
imperial city in which he lived — and ruled ? Such
children were all men in that bygone, silver age — all
men save kings and princes. And perhaps that is why,
out of contrast, the kings seem to us so brutally cun
ning, so fierce, so bloodily unworthy of their own
people.

Saint Peter's Cathedral was a massive stone build
ing of early Norman handiwork, little ornamented, but
imposing in its majestic simplicity. To the west and
the south of the great square in which it stood, were
the houses and shops of the city. Across the long
strip of cobble-stones which paved the mart, and behind
a broad ditch of water, rose the heavy stone walls,
ramparts, towers, and roofs of the castle and keep of

165

Bristol, — fortress and royal prison, within whose im
passable barriers lay the ambition of Poictou, the love
and despair of Brittany, the hope, fear and imagination
of Anthony Fitz-Hubert of Glastonbury.

By ten o'clock upon this morning the square was but
a moving mass of people. Of all ages, stations, and
callings were they; sober citizens in tunic, lengthened
shoe, and peaked hat; housewives and gossips in trail,
kirtle, and coif; maids in the same, with the addition
of lofty, new-fashioned, sugar-loaf head-dresses, with a
handful of merry-colored streamers flying from the top;
soldiers in buff jerkins or chain coats of mail, bare
headed or helmeted, shod or spurred as they chose;
country-folk in homespun ; children and fools alike in
motley; gallants sighing after maids or women; and
among the throng, looking like a pinch of pepper scat
tered over a mixed salad of bright-hued vegetables,
wandered the sober-vested canons, friars, and priests,
who had naught to do with the business of this long-
cursed day. Anthony moved among them with his
eyes on the ground, his ears strained to catch the lan
guage of the throng, once so familiar and so dear to
him. But the assemblage was no light-hearted one.
The sky and the people were in accord : the one heavy
and gray, the other weighted with some undefined,
anticipatory dread. And ever behind the monk, at no
great distance, there followed two others in his wake,
• — the one Eustace Comyn ; the second, he who had
looked oft and eagerly upon the grave face and the
clear eyes of Mary of the Longland farm.

A sensitive person might have felt with a heart
throb the shock that passed over the uneasy crowd
when the first deep boom of the cathedral bell vibrated
slowly out from its tower above the square. The mass
was instinctively responsive. There was an immediate
drifting toward the open doors of the church. None
hurried, none lagged. The hand of the great Dictator

166 c3ncanom'?et)

of Christendom held the reins that drove these people.
That hand used the individual lash but seldom, but
relentlessly it could wheel the world. Over the cobble
stones sounded no hurried trampling of many feet.
Inch by inch, quietly, the people moved forward. And
as the foremost in the throng entered the chilly stone
aisles, the first cold drops of a slow rain fell heavily
upon those who still stood without.

In twenty minutes the mass was motionless. The
cathedral was crowded to its doors, and outside, still in
the square, stood groups of those willing to be wet
with the shower for the sake of gathering some inkling
of what was going on beyond them, within the church.
In the centre of the nave stood Anthony, pressed close
on all sides by men and women and little children.
And the great vault above them caught up each faintest
whisper from below and rolled it on, and echoed it,
till he who had spoken grew startled and ashamed of
the clamor which he seemed to have made.

"Is the Bull to be read in our tongue, think you?"
questioned a stout burgher upon Anthony's right hand.

"I fear not," responded a neighbor. "Papal bulls
are ever in Latin ; or, at best, this will be in French,
the language of the court. "

"Of what use, then, our coming hither? Neither
the one nor the other do I, at any rate, understand."

"But dost forget that I am something versed in the
French language, having been once acquainted with a
lady-in-waiting to her Grace, the Countess of Clare?"
quoth the wife of the latter, loftily.

"Ay. Thou canst perchance give 'greeting, duty,
and obedience ' to some higher than thyself; or chit
chat concerning thy finery may come from thy mouth in
the French language. Think you that either will serve
you for the understanding of a holy writ?" retorted
her spouse, having, in truth, a somewhat better case
than she.

167

The goodwife flung up her weighted head angrily,
but dared make no reply. A foreign monk, one of
Pandulph's own men, and therefore a direct messenger
from Rome, was mounting the pulpit steps. Anthony
turned suddenly to the group beside him.

"The reading will be in Latin," he said. "An you
will, I can translate to English for your pleasure."

The woman stared at him as though he had proposed
some insolence, but the men seemed greatly pleased,
and one of them replied at once:

"That were indeed kind, good father. We would
gladly learn what is said, and would thank thee for
telling it."

Anthony merely nodded to them, then waited in
silence for the first words from the pulpit. A perfect
hush had now settled over the expectant multitude.
In the central stand of carven stone were two priests :
one belonging to the cathedral, and well known to the
congregation ; the other the stranger, who held within
his hand a roll of parchment, from which dangled a
heavy red seal. The common interest was centred
in this document. The Englishman, stepping to the
front, spoke first, and his words were clearly enunciated
and comprehensible to all.

" Good people, ye are gathered here together in obe
dience to the direction of our temporal ruler, Pope
Innocent, the third of his name. Doubtless all here
are acquainted to some degree with those diverse and
sundry reasons wherefore the Holy Father seeth fit to
lay upon our stricken land a grievous and heavy pun
ishment." Here the priest paused for an instant, but
there was no sound of comment from the assembled
multitude. " Of those reasons I shall say naught.
The father beside me here, being one of the train of
Lord Cardinal Pandulph himself, who, as ye know,
hath come to England as the envoy of his Holiness,
bears with him in his hand a copy of the Interdict

168 aincanoni?e&

which is to be pronounced over us all. The writ
being, as is meet, in Latin, should ye fail to under
stand any part or parts of it, ye may come hereafter at
any hour to-day, as many as please, to any monk or
canon of the cathedral, or to any one in order who
chances to know the law, and have this matter trans
lated to you in English, that ye may learn and under
stand its import. Now from the hour of twelve o'clock,
noon, upon this day, Monday, the thirtieth of the
month, which is March, in this year of our Saviour
1208, this law will be in force over every subject of
King John in the isle of England, or wheresoever one
may chance to be, abroad."

The priest paused, uncertain as to whether he had
finished or no, hesitated for an instant, then drew
back, allowing his companion to take precedence at
last. There was a breath from the throng, a slight
rustle, as of attitudes changing, then once more silence.
The Italian gazed down upon them, expressionlessly.
The burghers greeted his looks with answering stolid
ity; they were here to listen, and they waited patiently
for the beginning. Leaning slightly upon the reading-
desk, the priest raised his parchment and slowly un
rolled it. He cleared his throat faintly, and glanced
along the first line of Latin.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," he
began, pronouncing the unflexible syllables of the
dead language with a melodious Italian accent. The
crowd moved again, and those immediately about
Anthony turned to him. He commenced at once to
translate into English each sentence as it was carefully
read from the pulpit. It was not long before he re
pented of his offer. As, item by item, this Interdict
of Souls was made clear to them, the people who must
lie under the ban, they became first half incredulous
with astonishment that it went so far beyond what
they had expected, then grew speechless with foreboding

169

at the vista of a future life, godless, comfortless, mate
rial, which opened before them. No marriages ! — no
births that could be sanctified ! — no burials made holy !
— no alms! — no absolution! — above all and over
all, no absolution ! — It was inconceivable.

The document was curt. Its phrases were unsoftened
and unornamented, and it took not long to read.
Nevertheless, before the Teste Meipso had been spoken,
certain lowly muttered expressions and murmurs that
rose from the crowd showed that not all in the assem
blage had found their ancient mother-tongue untrans
latable or incomprehensible. And when the people
understood that this curse had come upon them be
cause of their King's firmness in refusing to accept as
head of his realm, under him, a foreigner, and a traitor
to the kingdom, was it any wonder that their short
sighted wrath was roused, not against the Pope, whose
injustice this Interdict so loudly proclaimed, but
against the King, him whose punishment they were
being made to take?

The great cathedral bell was tolling again, this time
in woe, as the mass of people, giving vent to their
feeling in action, poured from the church into the
square at such a pace as a crowd in Bristol never
assumed again. Once in the air; however, beneath
those gray, fire-quenching clouds, they stopped to talk
of it among themselves. And when a nation stops to
talk, the fear or the hope of a rebellion is gone.

Anthony, his proffered task finished, refused the
advances of the two burghers and the woman, to remain
of their group, and, knowing no one else among the
people, made his way slowly across the square, lost in
thought. For the moment he had forgotten his duty.
Presently, as his steps bore him to the left, he felt
upon him, even in the gray light, the oppressive
shadow of a great building. He looked up. Above
him rose the towers and mighty battlements of the

stronghold that had been built by Robert of Gloucester,
and had once held a harassed queen safe within its
walls, and an English army and an English king at
bay, outside them.1 It was Bristol Castle. He stood
near to its drawbridge. Across that he was awaited.
Somewhere in this stranger city he would be welcomed.
With a little quickening of the pulses, he straightened
up and hurried with vigorous steps down to the edge
of the moat. Close behind him, a double shadow,
still hovered those two gray, monkish figures, whose
presence lay an undefined weight upon his heart. But
beyond the threshold that was before him they might
not penetrate. And standing for a moment gazing into
the sluggish waters at his feet, great fear and a mighty
hope struggled together in his heart for supremacy over
the new world on whose borderland he was, — his
world alone, into which none, unbidden, might go
with him. Was the watchword of that kingdom to be
happiness or disappointment? Its password was
"Eleanor," the fear, more of himself than of her, —
and the hope, he dared not define in words.
So at length, alone, he entered into his castle.

1 The Empress Maude, daughter of Henry I., was besieged in this
castle by the rival claimant to the English throne, Stephen, Count of
Blois, grandson of William the Conqueror, in the year 1136.

CHAPTER X

ELEANOR OF BRITTANY

WITHIN a dark-walled and heavily furnished
room sat three young women, the pretty
whiteness of their faces contrasting strongly
with the oaken furniture, tapestried walls, and bare, stone
floor. Two of the three, the most sombrely garbed,
bent laboriously over tapestry frames, while the third,
whose great coils of black hair seemed too heavy for
her delicate head, sat idle, beside an unglazed window,
taking no heed of the man-at-arms in the court below,
but letting her large gray eyes wander restlessly over the
gloomy sky, which, beside the courtyard, two stone
walls, and a mysterious patch of white road that seemed
to rise from nothing far up on to the horizon, beyond
the castle, was all that was to be seen from where she
was. Her ringers tapped with mechanical nervousness
upon the sill, in time with the low madrigal which one
of her companions softly crooned. But when this sound
ceased, she turned her head quickly toward the room.

" The drawbridge was lowered then, methinks,
madam," said the sharp-eared one, in answer to a
look, and speaking in French.

"'Tis John, returning from the market-place; or a
new guard from the King, or — or a beggar, perchance."

" Yes, or the monk, lady — thy — "

" Be silent, Clothilde. The confessor, you would say?
Speak not that word to me again. Confessor ! There
is none. The King's henchman but mocked at me
when he spoke of it. That I know. Well-a-day ! My

172 2Jncanom?eti

soul hath gone unshriven for so long that it may not
unhappily go longer. I care not. Ah ! death were a
pleasant change from this —

" Lady ! dear lady, say not so," came in timid re
monstrance from the other attendant, Marie.

" I shall say as I choose. Besides, thou didst not let
me finish. I had said that death were a pleasant change
from this, were it not for one thing. One only thing
maketh me cling to life."

A significant glance passed between the two maids.
At the same moment the Princess Eleanor rose impetu
ously from her stool, and began nervously to pace the
narrow apartment, her long garments of cream-colored
wool trailing over the chill stones as she went. The
murmuring song was taken up again. The day was
passing like the hundred that had gone before it.

Suddenly there was a clapping at the door, which
broke upon the feminine atmosphere with strange un-
timeliness. The Princess stopped short in her walk and
turned her head, only the little straightening of her
shoulders signifying her eagerness.

" Clothilde," she said quietly.

Clothilde left her frame and hurried obediently to
the door, opening it just in time to save a repetition of
the knock. Outside stood John Norman, porter of the
lodge, general servant to the King's guard of the keep,
chamberlain of the deserted castle halls, and devoted
and admiring servitor of the royal demoiselle under his
charge. With great alacrity he stepped into the apart
ment, bowing low, with an ease born of long habit, to
Eleanor.

" Well, John ! —well ! Your errand? "

" Madam, at last — your confessor is come from
Glastonbury, even as my Lord de Burgh did promise
you. He is below, and would know whether he is to
await you in the chapel or not."

"Now verily, John, should I be as laggardly in seeing

(Eleanor of isrittant J73

him as he hath been in coming here to me, 'twould seem
discourteous indeed. Perchance I should not see him
at all ; he dying of old age ere I made ready to come
to him. Will the midday meal be served soon, good
John?"

" The m — dinner, madam ? " stammered the old fellow,
confusedly. From the confessor to dinner at a breath
in these dull times was a brain-whirling thing. Madam
was young, else she would not thus waste excitement.
" Oh, ay. Dinner shall be served as soon — in short,
when you wish it, lady."

Eleanor regarded him seriously. " Let it be served at
once, then ; and lay the table with two trenchers and
flagons. My father confessor shall dine with me to-day.
Until the meal be served, he may talk with me here.
We have not so many guests that we can waste much of
their stay when they do come."

With a silent bow John backed reluctantly away.
Before he reached the door, however, he stopped and
said, with daring remonstrance, "A — a common monk
— madam?"

" De Burgh informed me that he was not a common
monk."

John's shoulders went up ever so slightly. He was at
the door. Suddenly the Princess started toward him,
across the room, with light haste. "John — hath mon
Sieur no word for me to-day?"

" His duty, madam, and profound devotion. There
was no time for aught else. The keep was in a broil
this morning."

Eleanor smiled, nodded, and dismissed him. The
door closed. Once more she returned slowly to the
rain-splashed casement.

" Clothilde and Marie, pick up your threads there and
put away this endless work. I need you no longer now.
You may retire till the dinner hour. This afternoon
shall you, likewise, absolve your souls from sin, if

174 Oncanoni?eD

mine own burden hath not by that time prostrated our
holy confessor. Go now to your own apartments, and
prepare yourselves for the service by prayer. Mind
also — that your backs are kept to the window that
looketh upon the court of the keep."

This last warning occasioned another glance between
the ladies-in-waiting, who, though somewhat disap
pointed in not obtaining a first view of the visitor, were
none the less pleased at being relieved for an hour from
the irksomeness of the demeanor required in the pres
ence of her Highness, and, incidentally, from the tapes
try. So Eleanor of Brittany, left alone, seated herself
once more by the casement, to listen for the approach
ing steps of the stranger. There was no thought of her
own appearance in her mind. Her idea of the confessor
did not allow of that.

" An old man, and a reverend, will he be. One with
whom, doubtless, I may trust the dear secret. 'Twill be
like once more beholding my grandsire to look upon
his mild face and white hair. His manner will be gentle,
and his faded eyes will look at me tenderly. I shall
have great comfort in him. Mayhap he will be weary
with long riding. He shall have a flagon of good Bur
gundy or ever our dinner begins."

There were sounds from the corridor outside. The
door was opened without preliminary. Eleanor rose
nervously.

" The confessor, madam," said John.

Anthony entered the room.

He seemed at first incapable of speech, bowing only,
with a mixture of high dignity and humility. Eleanor,
too, was silent, out of surprise. She stood just where
she had risen, her pale, broidered robes clinging to her
slight figure, her long, twisted coils of hair falling to
her knees, one blue-veined hand resting upon the jutting
corner of the wall, astonishment written in every line of
her face.

(Eleanor of TBtrittan? 175

" Thou — a confessor ! " she said at length, slowly.

Anthony's black eyes had flashed over and through
her. " Even so — madam," he responded steadily,
though his heart had suddenly been set running like a
trip-hammer.

The Princess recovered herself. "You are younger
than I had thought," she said, with a hint of displeasure
in her tone.

The monk raised his brows. " I am not young," he
said.

" Thy gray hairs and wrinkles are full slow in com
ing, then," she responded, with a faint curling of the

HP.

Anthony could not help smiling, though he per
ceived her intended scorn.

" Be seated," she continued, with an unconscious air
of royal graciousness that showed her breeding. "The
sight of a new face, however young, refreshes me.
The days here are long, — wearily long."

" None the less have you been long in summoning
me, madam. Through the whole winter I have awaited
your call," he said, all at once feeling that the waiting
had been repaid in full.

She had resumed her seat before he spoke. This
time her back was toward the window, so that the
light shone upon her hair and shoulders, but left her
face in misty shadow.

" 'T is now. ten months since I was absolved from sin.
Methought John Lackland had assuredly designed me
for an age in purgatory."

" You are unjust to the King."

She started at his temerity. " Hath the King, then,
been so just to me? " she said at last.

"Nay. I grant you 'tis wrong of him, unfeeling, in
keeping imprisoned one such as you. Otherwise, lady,
methinks the King has done no injustice."

"No wrong! Then where — where is the rightful

i76 2Jncanom?et>

King of this hateful land? Where hath John hid my
brother, my little brother — Arthur?" There were
tears in her eyes and in her voice alike. She did not
look at the monk, but let her face sink into her white
hands.

Now Anthony, regretting bitterly his rashness in
having impelled this outburst, exercised one of his
privileges as spiritual director over the forlorn girl.
Rising, he came and stood near her, speaking in a
voice that was firm, and yet so gentle that Eleanor,
astonished at its melody, forgot herself for the moment,
raised her -head, and listened to him quietly.

" Peace, Eleanor. Be thou not fearful for the fate
of thy brother, Arthur of Brittany. He is in the Castle
of Rouen, a prisoner, 'tis true, but well in mind and
body, and kindly treated.- Grieve not over him. Thy
lot is as hard."

" Dost know this ? " she asked eagerly.

And Anthony perjured himself, unwisely, willingly,
madly, for her heart's peace. His good sense, and
his usual phlegmatic calm, had fled together. " Upon
my life I know this, Princess."

Eleanor looked into his face, her eyes brilliant with
tears. " I thank thee," she said, using the familiar pro
noun inadvertently.

By the look and the words Anthony was repaid in
full for the oath which might have been true or might
have been false; he cared little which, so that it
brought comfort to the friendless prisoner, who indeed
owed all her unhappiness to that same quick-tempered
and ill-advised brother whom she so mourned.

There was a pause, Eleanor being apparently ab
sorbed in her own thoughts, till Anthony, with no
little trepidation, ventured to break the silence ; though
be it understood that, as her confessor, he was com
monly recognized to be on a level of intercourse with
the Princess, of royal blood though she were.

Cleanor of isrittan? 177

" Princess, there is a certain question that I am
eager to have answered, for mine own peace of mind.
Thou sayest that for ten months thou hast confessed
thy sins to none. Is it then possible that throughout
that time thou didst know naught of my near presence
at Glastonbury?"

"Nay," she responded frankly. "'Twas in — let me
think — 'twas in August of last year that mine uncle's
tool, Hubert de Burgh, did visit me here for, as it
seemed, the sole purpose of informing me of your
presence and office. He even so far forgot his posi
tion as to advise my summoning you hither at once.
When he had departed, I was, to speak truly, angered
with him, and the indignity to which I was subject
under the usurper's will. Before that time I had
longed for a confessor, and wept for many an hour
over the death of mine old Norman father, who had,
indeed, been as a father to me. But a stranger was
hateful, e'en in thought, after De Burgh had gone.
Then, too, I dreaded lest a trick had been played, to
cause me to send to Glastonbury for one who was not
there. Therefore have I waited these many months,
till a second visit from De Burgh broke my resolution.
Perchance I was weak, but he spoke kindly to me, and
I could find no flaw in his behavior. Therefore, when
he offered to send one of his own men for you, I did
consent to let him, being weary of withstanding every
hope of some diversion in this lonely place.

" But you, Sir Monk, were full long in coming. I
had expected you yester even. When you came not
I did blame my folly for having believed my lord's
words. Then all this weary morning have I sat here
idly, with my heart burning in anger against them all.
Prithee, what kept you for so long a time? "

" Ignorance, Princess," was the answer. " I had a
fancy, I know not how it came, that you kept here
some sort of little court, where the evening would pass

in entertainment and there would be small place for a
monkish confessor. And this morning, indeed, I was
up betimes, but did not imagine that you would be
visible at all ere noon, after the fashion of Isabella of
Angouleme. Therefore have I been for two hours in
the square just beyond the castle moat, and likewise
within the cathedral, and have heard the pronounce
ment of Interdict over the realm."

" Interdict ! " she interrupted eagerly. " Hath the
usurper then gone so far as that? Hath his Holiness
at last interfered for us? Thanks be to God ! "

"Stop, lady — I pray you! This Interdict from
Rome is gross injustice, nay, tyranny. Naught hath
the King done to merit it, save in the refusal to
acknowledge the consecration of a traitorous French
Bishop, who goes hand and glove with Philip of
France, an intriguer and a plotter for the see of Can
terbury, the loftiest and the holiest place in England.
The Interdict can bring no good to Innocent, but, alas !
still less to the King, and the people of this realm."

As Anthony stopped he found Eleanor's eyes, burn
ing with wrath, fixed on him. When she spoke it was
in a voice tremulous with angry despair. " You are no
monk, only some other of John's nobles sent here in
sacrilegious guise to taunt and insult me with this
cruelty. T is grown past bearing at last. Know that
I will endure no more. Thanks, indeed, to the Al
mighty Father, my poor life may be soon ended. But
my death shall not be debased by your presence ! Out
of my sight ! Traitor ! Dastard ! Coward, persecutor
of a helpless woman ! Shame, indeed, upon such a
manhood ! "

She was upon her feet, now, and one thin hand was
lifted against him, to emphasize her wrath. Anthony,
his face whiter than her robe, had drawn back a pace
before her. Then, seeing her quick smile of scorn,
he stood quite still, gazing at her so fixedly that she

(Eleanor of isrittanv 179

grew finally disturbed at the look. Gradually his head
assumed a poise as lofty as her own. Pointing to the
stool from which she had risen, he said, in a voice not
well controlled : " Sit there."

Answering his long gaze with a glance of sudden
curiosity, she obeyed his wish ; and, by the varying
emotions that played over her mobile face at his words,
one might have guessed very accurately what he was
saying. Scarcely looking at her, and speaking stiffly
from the fierceness of his struggle to keep down any
suspicion of emotional sentimentality, he began his
justification : —

" You believe that I am no monk. In a way, Prin
cess, you are right; in another, you are cruel.

" I am the son of Hubert Fitz-Walter, the last Arch
bishop of Canterbury. My mother has always been
unknown to me. For the first three-and-twenty years
of my life I lived only at court, — first that of Henry,
then of the Lion-heart. Henry himself, the father of
John, and your grandfather, was pleased to make me
the close companion of his own natural son, William of
Salisbury. I looked forward always to the life of a
courtier. Those men who are high in the kingdom
now, knew me as a boy younger than they. So power
ful was the position of my father that no difference of
birth was heeded in me.

" When I was twenty-three years old I was summoned
to the bedside of my father, at Lambeth. What passed
between us in the interview that we held together then,
neither you nor any one on earth can know. I went
into his room a happy, careless, spendthrift boy; I
came out of it a monk, a celibate, a man. Two days
later I entered into the great Augustinian monastery at
Canterbury as a novice, where, six months afterward, I
took the vows which made me a prisoner, far more
closely bound than you can be ; for death alone shall
release me from a life that is grown to be a torture. I

became a monk half out of pity, half from fear. The
pity is nearly gone, the fear left me ere I had taken the
vows. After a time I was removed to the Chapter of
Canterbury, where I had the pain of frequently behold
ing my father. After his death I was left desolate
among men. In the July of last year, upon the break
ing up of the chapter, Hubert de Burgh sent for me, and
showed me that dispensation from the Pope which per
mitted my coming to Glastonbury, and to visit Bristol
as your confessor.

" The Church, Princess, I love not. I am unfit for
my place. The clergy are to me a hateful body. Will
ingly, gladly would I see my scapular replaced by
the tunic for the coffin. Yet death is not for me to
hope for or to dream of.

" And so that is my history, madam. Doubtless your
tolerance have I forfeited by my words. You will see
how unfitted I am to absolve any living one from sin.
None the less I regret not that I have spoken. You
see how it is that King and noble — they who were
my friends long ago — are dearer now than any priest,
bishop, or pope could be. There is left but one word
for you to speak. An I misdoubt me not it will be —
< Go.' "

The head of the Princess had sunk upon her hand.
Her eyes wandered blindly over the floor. Anthony
watched her expression with incredulity. A warm drop,
leaving its gray home, fell to the stone at Eleanor's feet.
Impetuously she raised her hand, and stretched it out
to him — the apostate. There was a faint, sad smile
about her lips. Something hard pressed at his throat.
He tried to speak, but articulation was beyond him
then. Seeing it useless, he dropped upon his knee, and
took the cold, delicate hand to his lips.

" Thou spakest truly," she whispered. " Thy lot is
harder than mine."

It was well that at this moment there was a pound-

Cleanor of oerfttan 181

ing at the door of the corridor, through which, an instant
after, came old John, with the announcement that their
midday meal awaited them. Indeed it was already past
the ordinary hour, though in their converse both prin
cess and monk, for the first time in many months, had
failed to note the flight of time. The little dining-apart-
ment was reached by a stone hallway which connected
it with the living-room ; and Anthony and John stood
on either side of the door with lowered heads as Elea
nor swept by them in silence.

The room where their meal lay spread was the last of
the little suite which had been assigned to the captive
Princess. It was a small place, and the extreme height
of the two windows in its walls gave an odd effect of
light and shade to an apartment doubtless once de
signed for a praying-closet, or possibly a privy council-
chamber. In its centre stood a small, unpolished table,
covered with coarse damask, and laid with places for
two. Behind one of the high oaken chairs, with stiffly
folded hands, and faces punctiliously devoid of expres
sion, stood the demoiselles Marie and Clothilde.

With a pretty gesture Eleanor motioned Anthony
to his place, and then stopped, waiting, at her own.
The maids lowered their heads, and expectantly drooped
their eyelids. Then, happily, Anthony's wits came to
him again. Raising both hands, after the approved
fashion, he pronounced the Latin grace with what fervor
he could command. In the " Amen " the Princess
joined him, softly. Then together they were seated,
both, somewhat oddly, feeling constrained at the thought
that they were not alone.

Now once more came John, man of all work, bearing
in his hands a large metal bowl filled with broth of his
own making. This was set before the Princess, together
with a silver vessel, into which she poured her portion
of this first course. Thereupon the original dish, with
its contents not much lessened, was given Anthony, to-

gather with a large and awkward spoon of horn. Memo
ries of his gallant days, when he had been wont often to
dine with ladies, returned to him. The customs seemed
to be unchanged — even though now he was a monk,
and his hostess of blood royal. •

The meal proceeded with a dish of well-made comfits,
marchplanes, and sweets, which, in those barbaric times,
were served toward the beginning of a meal, if they
were served at all. After this came a brace of wild
fowl, with boiled roots, wheaten bread, and a flagon of
excellent red wine, following which was a dish with
which Anthony was unfamiliar; a French compound it
was, indeed, made, for Eleanor's delectation, by the
skilled hands of her lady, Marie. Truly, whatever other
cruelties might be practised upon his hapless niece by
King John, the stinting her in royal table appointments
seemed not to have occurred to him, thought Anthony,
as the meal progressed. Neither of the diners ate
heartily. The monk, at any rate, felt unreasonably dis
turbed under the unwinking stares from two pairs of
black eyes which gazed at him over the back of
Eleanor's chair. The prolonged repast was at last con
cluded with the drinking of .two little cupfuls of rare
white wine, hot and spiced ; and it was indeed with no
small relief that Anthony rose at last and stood aside, to
let the Princess pass. As he did so he caught a whispered
French conversation between the ladies-in-waiting.

" A splendid face, think you not so? — and a bearing
which would grace a king."

"Ay. He is rarely handsome, but no more so than
my Lord de la Bordelaye, meseemeth; though he
seems to please our lady."

" Nay, — for shame, Marie ! "

There was a suppressed giggle, then the door closed
behind the monk. He had time neither to wonder over
nor grow angry at their words. Eleanor had turned to
him and was speaking.

(Eleanor of istittant l83

" It would please me were you to go at once to the
chapel below, and see that the confessional is in order.
It hath been now long unused. I wili come to you there
somewhat later, and afterwards my demoiselles shall be
sent. At the end of this passage are the stairs. De
scending them, you will find yourself in another hallway.
The first door upon your left hand will lead you into
the chapel, with the vestry beyond it. John hath put
the keys into the lock. You will find no difficulty in
entering. Await me."

So saying, she pointed out his way and seemed about
to leave him to follow it. He detained her for an in
stant by a light touch on the sleeve. Turning his face
slightly from her he asked, in a muffled voice : —

" Canst confess freely to me, madam? I would not
force it on you. A more venerable person — "

"What say you, father? Hath not his Holiness
himself sent you to me? Go now to the chapel." So
did Eleanor voluntarily repudiate her own first thoughts
of Anthony, his daring, and his youth.

Bowing humbly, the monk turned, and heard her
steps pass swiftly away behind him. She was a princess
royal. He had gained her compassion, her sympathy,
her good-will. Why should he have wished for more
than that? At least he had not the temerity to analyze
his unwarranted and unaccountable feeling of disap
pointment at her gentle unconsciousness. But Anthony
Fitz-Hubert's last years had lain too close to tragedy
for many emotions to need dissecting before he should
understand them.

The large key to the chapel turned rustily in its lock,
and the heavy door creaked open before him. For a
moment or two the dim twilight which met his eyes con
fused their sight ; and, when finally he could look about,
all, at first, that he could see, was dust. Dust covered
the walls and darkened the groined and carven ceiling;
dust lay thick upon the floor, and was caked upon

1 84 ancanom'?e&

the sills of the two long narrow windows that served
to light the little place. At the south end of the
room was the altar, hung with a bit of coarse and
faded linen ; and about the arms of the tarnished cross
above it, a lusty spider had woven a delicate, sacrile
gious web. At the other end of the chapel a small
doorway led into a vestry, along one wall of which hung
some faded stoles of crimson and dull yellow, together
with one or two acolyte's dresses. The air in both
rooms was musty and thick. The little wooden confes
sional was placed just back of the entrance door. This
Anthony opened, and glanced inside. The small com
partment was a mass of cobwebs. Sweeping some of
these out with his hands, he stood picking their clinging
shreds from his gown and fingers, marvelling, the while,
at the neglect around him. It might do the Princess
Eleanor no harm to let her have a sight of this. But how
ask so delicate a damsel to remain in so unwholesome a
place ? Even then her steps were to be heard advanc
ing toward the chapel door. He glanced at the con
fessional, hesitated for an instant, then hurried out into
the passage. Eleanor, clad in long robes of black, a
white veil floating back from her -close coif, was beside
him. She seemed surprised at his appearance.

" The chapel is scarce fit place for a lady, Princess,"
he said, in answer to her look. " It will need much prep
aration ere it be meet for your presence. Perchance the
confessional may be held in some other ap — "

" Nay now, Sir Monk, dost think indeed that for more
than two years I have been locked securely within mine
uncle's oldest and most unused fortress to be frightened
by an ounce of dust at last? You do my courage
much discredit. Let me go in. How now? Listen!
It shall be part of my next penance that I kneel to con
fessional therein, and tremble not if mighty spiders or
other fearsome things accost me during my devotion.
What say you?"

(Eleanor of isrittant 185

She was smiling lightly at him, and he drew aside at
once, letting her pass. Upon seeing the place she said
not a word, though indeed she would not have had
Anthony guess the restraint by which she forced herself
to suppress an exclamation. He, not wishing to be
behind her in restraint, entered calmly into the confes
sional, and shut himself in, much to his secret distaste.
But he forgot the dust, the cobwebs, the spiders, the
place, the hour, his very life, as, pressing his cheek
hard against the lattice, he felt her delicate breath just
stir the dark locks that grew about his ear, and listened
to the murmur of that most sacred and secret service of
the Roman Catholic faith.

The confession was not a short one, it being a woman
who spoke ; and there were, besides, nearly nine months
of time, meagre in outer action, but overflowing with
heart-history and inward conflict, to be accounted for.
The story of her love she told simply, concealing
nothing but a name. And, as simply, Anthony the
monk received it. What more could come out of this
thing for him than was already his? And yet his heart
had fallen again. He was once more alone, alone with
an unhappiness that had not had time to become acute.
Silently he blessed her for telling him all so soon. And
lo ! before he had begun to think, the confession was
ended ; her voice had ceased to sound. The penance
which he imposed upon her came back to him long
afterwards as being very harsh. At the time he had
scarcely noted what he said. She was gone. Eleanor
was gone. One of her ladies was beside him now, and
he heard her recital, and that of her sister, listlessly,
although, indeed, the name of their royal mistress was
often enough in the mouths of each to have warmed his
heart, — had he not known. And finally the weary
time was past. Anthony crept stiffly from the chok
ing box, and stood watching the sunlight which, having
broken through the clouds, half-way to the horizon,

i86 C3ncanoni?eD

streamed hotly in at the windows of the chapel. The
monk's head was swimming, and he grew suddenly
blind. His flesh quivered. He stood with difficulty.
When he could see again he made his way painfully
to the door, and locked it behind him. The fresh air
in the corridor revived him. Now, however, he was
puzzled to know what to do, or where to go. Must he
depart without another word to the Princess? Certainly
he hesitated at the thought of intruding upon her in her
apartments again. Even as he meditated, out of the
very mists, as it were, appeared the providential John,
hobbling jovially toward him down the hall.

" Ho, Master Monk ! T is you I seek. Nay, fear
not, 't is for no confessional. Madam will not let you
go just yet. You must, forsooth, break your fast with
her again, in the little Frenchery meal of which she ever
partakes now, — naught but comfits and such-like stuff.
T is little for a man, but less for a lent- fasted monk, —
though at Glastonbury I would svyear that ye have none
too many cups of rare, spiced wine with your march-
planes ; so it may please you for once. Therefore get
you gone to her apartment, while I drag my poor limbs
once more to the kitchen at madam's pleasure."

By the time that John's last voluble sentence was half
way from his lips, Anthony had left him, and started
down the corridor, out of no haste, in reality, but from
pure weariness of sound, and particularly the raucous
tones of the old porter's voice.

The Princess had thrown aside her black cloak, and,
with her heavy hair in some slight disorder, sat in her
living-room, upon a low stool, bending over a brazier
in which burned a kind of charcoal. Her white face
was slightly flushed from the ruddy glow of the coals in
the tripod. The room was dusky, for, as the sun
approached the horizon, the clouds had conquered it
again ; and, despite the little fire, a chill was to be felt
in the air.

Cleauor of I3i;ittan^ 187

Anthony entered without knocking, reluctance at his
heart. The Princess looked up absently at his appear
ance, and, without speaking, motioned him to be seated.
He accepted her permission, and remained in silence,
watching her face, which wore a weary and unhappy
look. She made no move toward conversation, and
so presently he drifted off into a revery of his own,
concerning many things.

He was startled from his moodiness in a curious way.

"Well! Why speakest thou not? Thou 'rt worse
than my very maids, Sir Monk ! Thinkest thou that I
had summoned thee to return hither that thou mightest
sit and stare blindly at me, like a Breton owl? "

Anthony sat up quickly.

" Pardon, madam. I had thought that silence was
your pleasure."

Now John Norman entered, bearing a large wooden
salver, upon which were two or three novel dishes, and
a small silver pitcher, from which curled a fragrant
steam ; while beside it lay two hollow and exquisitely
inlaid goat's horns, of minute proportions. These he
arranged deftly at the Princess's side, upon a small stool.
Eleanor, however, took no notice of him, but replied
impetuously to Anthony's indifference.

" Silence ! Ah ! this everlasting silence ! The abode
of Silence is with me, and hath been so for years now.
I am aweary of living at* all ! Weary of food, and drink ;
weary past bearing of these old companions; weary
even of my well-loved tongue of Brittany ; weary of the
gray English skies ; and wearier than all, heart-sick, over
mine own brooding, over all our wretched puppet-lives,
of the way that it seems royalty must ever live, in quar
rels and with cruelty toward one another ; weary of all
the misery in our ill-starred family ! — Nay," and now
her voice became suddenly soft with tears, and her man
ner gentle and subdued, " how oft doth the memory of
those golden days of mine uncle Richard's reign visit

1 88 2Jncanoni?eB

me, to rend my heart in pieces ! My brother Arthur,
and I, and mine honored grandmother, after whom I
was christened, and whilom my mother also, and all
our little Breton court, dwelt merrily in old Falaise, —
wherein Arthur after was imprisoned, and John's mother
died of grief, and whence I was borne away to an Eng
lish prison. Ah, good monk, good monk, indeed you
know not all that I have lost!"

There were no tears in her eyes when she ceased to
speak ; and her voice had gradually grown monotonous
from excess of feeling. Anthony could think of no
words gentle enough to speak to her; he did nothing
but rise unsteadily, and move nearer, standing close be
side, but never venturing to touch her who sat, even as
he had done so many times before, alone in her sorrow.
And she was a woman, and he a man.

Eleanor of Brittany had come of a race that was not
accustomed often to show its trouble before any man,
or woman, or monk. And she was a true daughter of
her people, tried though she had been through all the
fairest of her years of maidenhood. Recovering her
reserve with astounding rapidity, she looked up at her
confessor with a faint smile, although as yet she could
think of nothing adequate to say. Anthony, however,
instantly recognized the change.

"Princess," he said, and the word, though he had
made no effort over it, was like a pearl suddenly re
solved into sound, " you have said that you were weary
of your companions here, weary also of the French
tongue that they speak. To-night I am to see my
Lord de Burgh. Methinks that it might be possible to
gain his assent to your having another maiden to abide
with you. Such a one I know of; one who might per
chance be willing to yield herself to captivity for you.
She is, however, no daughter of nobility — "

" Ah ! that matters not," interrupted Eleanor, eagerly.
" She is of England, say you, and fresh from the outside

Clcanot; of isrtttant 189

world? Verily 'twould be as balm to a wound to re
ceive such an one. Wilt bring her here?"

The monk smiled at her pathetic pleasure at the
prospect of something new. " If it would please thee
thus, lady, I will most assuredly try. She might ride
with me, an permission were got, at my next coming."

"When will that be?"

Anthony looked thoughtfully out of the window
into the darkening sky, whence the sun had finally
departed.

" When you command," he answered softly.

"Let it be soon, — soon," she cried, not noticing his
face.

Again a clap at the door, and the old keeper's head
peered in. The two turned. Eleanor was annoyed.

" My lord monk ! "

Anthony started ; Eleanor looked up at him quickly.

" Well, John Norman."

" An it please you, sir, the Count de la Marche hath
sent to request your attendance upon him. He too, it
seemeth, hath been stricken with a sudden desire for
holiness ; and, he being a Frenchman, the Inter — "

" Peace, peace, John, for the love of Heaven ! Doth
the Count require my presence soon?"

" ' At once/ said he, my — my — your lordship ! "
stammered the old fellow, confounded by a sudden
revelation from the keep that this Benedictine's birth
was lofty.

Anthony hesitated, and looked down at the girl be
fore him. For some reason her cheeks were strangely
flushed. A pang leaped to the heart of the monk.
De la Marche —

" Father Anthony, thou must go. For now I do bid
thee farewell. Thou must not keep the Count waiting,
e'en though thou hast not partaken of my comfits here.
In very sooth I had forgot them. Now, I pray thee,
forget me not in my loneliness, good monk — and — I

190

shall see thee soon again. When next thou comest
thou wilt bring the maid?"

" I will do all that I can, madam. When you send I
will make all haste to your side — with Mary, if it be
possible. Now fare you well, and peace be with you."

Such was his good-bye to her, and, when it was
spoken, he strode away by the keeper's side, down the
stairs, and through long passages, and so into the
courtyard, just beyond which, in an enclosure of its own,
stood the great keep, wherein, with his four gentlemen,
was entertained, at the expense of John of England, the
noble Poictevin, Count Hugh de la Marche, erst
while the guardian and betrothed of Queen Isabella
of Angouleme, — and now — lover of Eleanor of
Brittany?

At the thought and the instant suspicion, Anthony
ground his teeth.

CHAPTER XI

DE LA MARCHE

OF that castle-fortress which Robert of Gloucester
had built there upon the southeast corner of Bris
tol town nearly a hundred years before Anthony's
first visit to it, not even the trace of a foundation can be
found to-day. But in the ever-useful Tower Records is
a description of its plan, given in the curt language of
the period, which must be accepted to-day as the best
authority extant for its existence. Its drawbridge and
portcullis faced upon the square of St. Peter's, at the
southeastern extremity of the city. Its walls were lofty
and thick, and its moat bountifully fed by the two rivers,
Frome and Avon, which swept it on either side. Past
the drawbridge was the porter's lodge, inhabited by
John Norman, and flanked on the south by a great
watch-tower. Straight in front of this, in its own court
yard, was the keep, square, solid, three stories in height,
lighted by loopholes, a watch-tower on each corner,
and only to be entered through an iron-bound door of
such thickness that none but a grown man could move
it. About this central structure were other buildings,
equalling it in appearance, if not in reality, — two store
houses, a wine-cellar, and the stables. A heavy wall
with but one gate, and that almost touching upon a
corner of the keep, separated this little group of de
fensible structures from the palace itself, which was built
about three sides of an inner court, stone-paved and
treeless. Such were the buildings. One more bit of the
plan, however, and that the quaintest, shortest-men-

i92 2Jncattoni?et)

tioned, and therefore least impregnable and most in
viting, in this sombre dwelling-place, remains to be
given. Outside the walls, but within the moat, reached
by a small gateway from a corner of the keep court
yard, protected on three sides by the Avon's stream, and
nestling close to the great wall upon the other, lay the
only jewel in this box of stones. It was called the
King's Orchard, and was, in truth, a tiny garden,
bowered and posied for ladies, lovers, and children —
should any of these hapless beings dare to dwell within
yonder unbeautiful walls. Here had been made all the
whispered history of the fortress, and from here apple-
trees, rustling among themselves, peered with flagrant,
fragrant impudence over the walls and into the court
yard, or out over the swift-flowing water, a little nearer
to the free fields beyond, as they chose ; spoiled, after
the manner of lovely living things.

It was six o'clock in the afternoon and gloomy enough
outside, when Anthony and John Norman left the
castle, crossed the cobble-stones, and passed the open
gate which admitted them to the outer wall of the keep.
The ponderous door of this great building was unlocked,
the key, which lay in its hole, being as long as a man's
leg from his thigh to his knee, and almost as heavy.
The first floor of the fortress was occupied by the hand
ful of men composing the King's guard, together with
their captain. At this time nine of the dozen were
within their room, sprawling out by a roaring fire,
before which lay roasting the meat for their evening
meal. Amusement was furnished these rough creatures
by the driving away and harassing of a little army
of dogs that besieged them again and again, eager to
reach the food whose odor came in maddening strength
to their nostrils.

Some of these members of the royal army looked up
at the entrance of the monk, but, contrary to their usual
custom, offered neither jest nor comment upon the

la jttarc^e 193

visitor's garb. Anthony and the keeper turned off to
the right, and entered the tower, up through which
ran a narrow, spiral staircase. Ascending this for some
little distance, a new sound reached their ears, to mingle
oddly with the noise from below. It was the music of
a troubadour's lute, which was accompanying a man's
voice, singing pleasantly a chansonette from a land over
the sea. For here, in the second story of Bristol keep,
lodged, for the most part in peace, the Lord Count
Hugh de la Marche, and his four gentlemen, who sat
now about their fire; the remains of food and wine
lying on a table which had been pushed aside, showing
that their evening meal was already over. The five of
them were all good-looking fellows, clad in garments
excellent of material and make, if somewhat ancient in
fashion. He who held the lute was the handsomest of
all, with his pointed beard, curling black hair that
reached to his shoulders, and eyes dark and severe as
Anthony's own.

At the doorway to this good-sized room John Norman
turned about and retraced his steps down the stairs,
leaving Anthony alone behind the strangers. He stood
there for a little time in shadow, unnoticed, watching
the men, and intently examining the great, broad-
shouldered, broad-belted figure of De la Marche, who,
by every trick of manner, showed himself to be the ruler
of the other four. Clad as he was in a much-patched
tunic, and hose that bore strong evidence of a man's
clumsy attempt at needle-wielding, his brown beard
and hair much lightened with gray, his face sombre and
careworn, there was yet enough of majestic dignity
in his appearance to mark him as a man whom, per
chance, a royal maiden might believe herself to love —
distantly.

It was De la Marche who finally perceived the monk.
Rising silently from his place beside the fire, he strode
to the doorway, and grasped Anthony by the shoulder

194 2Jncanottf?ct)

with such unconscious strength in his iron fingers that
the other's brows contracted with pain.

" Soho ! Mes Sieurs ! Behold here our timid con
fessor," he cried in a deep voice, and speaking in ex
cellent English. Then, instantly, he turned again to
Anthony, with a manner totally changed. " Pardon me.
For the moment I had forgot your birth."

" My birth ! — De Burgh hath been here, then? "

" Gone not half an hour."

" So I had thought. Verily I would thank my lord
an he prated something less about my parentage. T is
none too honorable. Behold me here a common Bene
dictine monk, and treat me thus, Count Hugh de la
Marche. I am no more than that."

" A common monk you are not, and could not be,
speaking so," responded one of the gentlemen, he with
the lute, looking up pleasantly. And Anthony liked
him at once for his manner.

De la Marche courteously mentioned each of the
knights by name, Louis de la Bordelaye being the
minstrel, and Anthony bowed to them all, with an air
so obviously of the court that the Count smiled beneath
his beard, and the others felt it only right that they
should receive him as an equal.

"You come from the Lady Eleanor? " asked Hugh at
last, with a side-glance at De la Bordelaye, which none
but Anthony failed to notice.

" I have been with her since noon," was the stolid
response, as the monk stared into the flames.

"She is well?"

"In body — yes."

"Nay, come, Sir Monk, assuredly she hath no^ mental
ailment? "

" Save a certain right pleasant one, to which young
damsels are, I am told, most prone. Look you, good
father, she doth imagine that De la — " the speech thus
merrily begun by one of the other knights was speedily

la jttarc^e 195

interrupted by La Marche, and the speaker subdued by
a black look from Louis De la Bordelaye. The Count
spoke.

" Your answer, Sir Anthony, as to madam's state ; and
then methinks we must to business, an you would see
De Burgh. to-night."

" Truly, my Lord Count, the Princess hath no mental dis
traction that I wot of, but rather a sickness of the heart — "

"What said I?" cried the fool, delightedly;* and
Anthony could not repress a flickering of the lips, as he
went on as phlegmatically as he was able : —

" A sickness of heart caused by the long solitude of
her imprisonment; and mourning over the like con
dition of her young brother, Arthur Fitz-Geoffrey ; and
the death of the Queen Dowager, her grandmother.
'T is a lonely life, and a sad, for such a maid."

"'True; true. But indeed we hold little power to
help the poor damsel, being ourselves in a somewhat
melancholy plight. Now, father, thy excuses and mine
to these gentlemen, and we will retire to the privacy of
mine own luxurious room, in this hospitable keep.
And see, La Ferriere, that when an hour be passed
you summon us ; for De Burgh awaits his good friend
at the Falcon Inn."

So, using his gruff voice most courteously, Count
Hugh led the way into one of the tiny rooms, which,
opening from the central apartment at each corner of
the keep, formed, on the ground floor, arsenals and
guard-rooms, and on the third story made turret watch-
towers, but here, in the middle, had been furnished as
meagrely as possible, and turned into sleeping-rooms
for the Wolf of Poictou and his followers. The door to
the Count's room once closed, the twain inside found it
cold enough, and were glad to bend over the brazier
which De la Marche now lighted, illuminating, at the
same time, the two cresset lanterns in the walls of his
comfortless abode.

*96 2Jncanoni?eD

" Now," he said at length, when both were seated,
" from De Burgh who, as thou knowest, was with me
to-day, I have learned somewhat of thy history, so that,
ere I saw thee, I was fain to regard thee as more courtier
than monk, and a rabid supporter of the usurper. But
in some way this sackcloth doth become thee well, and
the tonsure so finishes the disguise that verily his Holi
ness himself might have believed thee born to the
novitiate."

" And to what end this discourse, my Lord Count? "
inquired Anthony, with chilly anger.

" You like it not?" queried De la Marche, eying him
closely.

" I would have you to understand only that I am no
more than I seem, — a Benedictine monk, without rank
in my abbey. Pope Innocent hath empowered me to
confess the Princess Eleanor of Brittany, in the castle
yonder; and if Hubert de Burgh hath thus imagined
me an ordered priest, with all hope of rising to a Car-
dinalship, he is indeed sorely mistaken. An you bid
me do so, I will go with you through the forms of con
fession ; and rest assured that the law of secrecy shall
be in no way violated by me. Absolution I cannot
promise you. That is all that I will say."

" And bravely spoken, man or monk, whiche'er thou
art. But in this way my course is made none so easy."

" Thy course? What should that be? "

" Just this. From what Hubert de Burgh did say I
understand that you are to be the only thing in sem
blance of priest or confessor permitted to come to us in
this cursed, interdicted land. Now, Father Anthony
(out of jest, at least, I will so call you), I, Hugo de la
Marche, am verily in sore need of advice. There be
many things in this England of to-day which an im
prisoned man, who hears naught of out-world opinions,
finds all but impossible to comprehend. Thus one who
knows somewhat of the damnable twists and quirls of

la |Earc^e 197

intrigues of the court would indeed be a valued counselor
for him who hath been, for many years gone by, a rude
fighting man from the distant province of another land.
In sooth, the glitter of your eyes tempts me to disclose
some of the haps in this strange centre of cross-roads
where I stand. Say, good monk, wilt speak out honestly ?
My Lord de Burgh as confidant was not to be thought
on. Only you — courtier — will you use your wits as
well as your secrecy in my behalf? "

" Time presses, Count Hugh. An thou wilt speak at
once, do so. My mind is thine. My word as to dis
closure hath also been given. In other case I would
fain bid thee good-even, and get me at once to the Falcon
Inn, and to my lord."

"Well, then, the parley ends. I will tell thee what I
myself do know. Then 'twill be thy turn for the
unravelling. Firstly, however, answer me this. Thou
knowest mine old relations with Is — with the Queen of
England?"

" You were her guardian, and lawfully betrothed to
her."

" Ay ; guardian and lover of a spotless maid, whom
John — John Lackland, he whom you call King of this
broken realm — " De la Marche's eyes were flaming, and
his voice was husky.

" Enough, Lord Count. John of England wedded the
maiden, Isabella of Angouleme, and hath dwelt with
her since then. For you, fruitless rage and rebellion
brought you to this strong-walled and ill-kept fortress of
the King's grace. So much, indeed, I know."

" So I hear," quoth the Count, lapsed again into gloom.
" What you have said, though somewhat brief, and par
tial withal, is truth. T is history of my happiness and
my hate. Isabella of Angouleme I have learned to know
at last. She hath grown like to her husband — heartless
and cruel ; lovely as a morn of summer is she, all ex
cept her mouth; she is frivolous, extravagant, vain,

scornful. And this woman I despise as once I did love
her — mightily. I would that I might not look upon
her face again. And yet, Anthony, it may perchance
be that my homeward road lies through the palace where
she dwells. And how it is that I long for the borders
of Poictou, and for my people, my trusted knights, my
faithful servants, only an exile from them all could un
derstand. 'T is not in me, as a man, to weep ; else,
methinks, mine eyes would have fallen out in hot
showers long ere this, so sore is my heart. Seven
months have I lain here, and before that we were eleven
in Corfe, and e'en ere that in Falaise, during the sum
mer after its siege. So, you see, I am no stranger to
barred loopholes, and locked doors, and vile fare.
Now list you well.

" During all these many months and years has come
never a word from Isabella. Here, four days since,
while I walked for an hour at noon in the mud of the
King's Orchard, there appeared, upon the farther shore
of the swirling Avon, an archer, with his crossbow and
arrows. From over the river he accosted my guard,
like a merry rascal, asking if he should shoot from his
helmet the ragged gage that some wench had fastened
there. The guard did but laugh, when, presto;! swift as
the pebble that slew Goliath of old, came the arrow,
and carried right cleanly the gauntlet before it, nor
scratched the iron of the cap, grazing it by a hair's-
breadth. 'T was a rare archer, truly, and I laughed at
Master Nicholas as have not laughed, methinks, since
my last Poictevin feast. Nicholas raged like a bear,
and being himself without spear or bow, forgetting my
presence utterly, all in an instant dashed away from the
garden and up toward the guardhouse for his weapon.
Now, when he was gone, I turned mine eyes upon the
stranger, albeit I could make out no feature of his face,
for the sun in my eyes. He, too, when the worthy man
had left me, came close to the water's edge and looked

la jttarctye 199

at me. Presently, he waved his hand. Then I, from
curiosity and sudden suspicion, likewise, went down to
the water on my side, and there we stood, with but
thirty feet of the river between us. Leaning over, he
spoke to me warily.

" ' This arrow bears you a gage, better than that which
I shot away, Count Hugh de la Marche.'

" And immediately bringing a small gray arrow out
from beneath his cloak, he made a delicate half-shot
with the bow, and the thing dropped perhaps three
feet beyond me. I hurried to it, fearing mightily lest
Nicholas might be already near. Picking it up I
found, as indeed I had hoped, a small parchment fas
tened upon it. This I unbound and had concealed but
just in time; the arrow I flung quietly into the stream,
whose swift waters bore it out of sight. My guard,
having returned, came toward me, bawling to know
whither the insolent had departed ; and, in truth, when
I looked once more about, he was nowhere in sight.
It was an hour ere I could read my letter, and never
hath a recreation time passed on such laggard feet.
'T was a curious and needlessly troublous way to get it
to my hand, I had thought ; and yet — when 't is read —
See here, Anthony. Behold, I will trust thee even to
this. Here is Isabella's very missive. Read it for thy
self, and tell me thy thought upon it."

Anthony took the small, yellow thing into his hands,
and, in the dim light, hurriedly perused the few ill-spelt
words which it contained.

To MY LORD COUNT, HUGO DE LA MARCHE:

Perchance thou, in anger, hast forgot a woman unworthy.
Not so have I forgotten thee. My heart is bitter at thought
of thy long imprisonment. I would aid thee to be rid of it.
This, I swear to thee, shall be done, an thou consent to my
hope, and give some gage of thine own as pledge to one who
shall come to thee during the next few days.

200 2Jncanoni?eD

With the assistance of my good friend, the Bishop of
London, who is, likewise, no friend to the King of this king
dom, thou and thy gentlemen shall be removed from Bristol,
which is too far from here, to the Tower of London. Here,
while the King is in the North, whither presently he departs,
I shall have chance to see thee, and then, if thou assent to
my prayers, thou shalt be freed, through me,

ISABELLE D'ANGOULEME.

Anthony finished the letter, and sat meditating over
it for some moments. The Count watched his face
narrowly, but ventured no interrupting remark. Finally
the monk looked up.

" The second messenger hath not yet come? "

" Assuredly not."

" And dost understand that phrase, ' if thou assent
to my prayers ' ? "

" Tis capable of two meanings, Sir Monk. I confess
that I know not which the woman would have us read."

" Methinks it means not only that she would pray
you to escape ; 't is something she would ask of you."

" There is full little that I would grant her," returned
Hugh, his face flushing.

"The question lies not so much in that, my lord.
The matter is this ; art thou, Count of Poictou, so lack
ing in power of endurance of hardship, and honorable
discontent, that thou wouldst eagerly consent to being
aided in dishonorable flight by a woman who, once
before, did play thee doubly false? Wouldst place
thyself at mercy of her caprice, for the very thought of
escaping to thy home again ? Thinkest thou that when
thy flight is known, its means will long be hidden?
And be well assured that with its discovery all England,
ay, and France, too, will ring with news of thy sh -

" Enough, enough, enough ! Be silent, monk ! " cried
the Count in a passion. Then, after a pause, he pro
ceeded more calmly. " Now see. I had not before

la ttarcle 201

looked upon this matter in such a light. Mine only
fear had been lest Isabella had not indeed hatched this
idea. Might it not, perchance, be the King himself,
wishing to entrap me, she giving willing aid — labori
ously writing — ('twas I that taught her) — and he
grinning with thought of my disappointed hope over
her shoulder? "

" That is alike ungenerous and untrue. This letter,
I would swear, was writ by Isabella's hand, and the plot
— intrigue — what you will, is hers alone. 'T is a
woman's idea, romantic, indefinite, and well-nigh im
possible to be carried out."

" Thy reasons are as flimsy as a woman's own, Master
Anthony ! "

"Wouldst really go, then? Well, hear the real
reason why John would lure his wife into no such un
worthy plot. The King and Queen are lovers no
longer. Over all the land has spread the story of
faithlessness and frivolity on her part, high-handed
scorn on his. No longer do they e'en keep court at
the same castle. The King travels continually, hither
and yon, while Isabella dwells chiefly at Winchester,
with her children and train. Now, Hugh de la Marche,
thou shalt decide for thyself."

Isabella's old-time guardian frowned, paced the room
once or twice, then looked up with a grim smile.
" Well wert thou instructed in thy youth at court, and
easily hast thou prevailed over me, a bluff fighting-man.
So be it. De la Bordelaye, at least, will be content,
methinks."

" Thy gentlemen have been consulted?"

" Of a surety. They are faithful comrades — near to
brethren by now. Much do I owe them, that can be
ill repaid."

" And the Sieur de la Bordelaye doth so love this
gloomy place?"

" Again, yes ; sith it holds another heart for him."

202

"Another heart?"

" Ah, well, good Anthony, sith Louis hath not, this
evening, the honor of confessional with thee, I will e'en
speak for him. Alack ! Poor soul ! He is lost, mind
and body — in love."

" Over whom ? " asked Anthony, harshly.

"One too high — ay, far too high, for him, were
either of them in free estate. But here — here 'tis at
best only a note now and again, amiably delivered by
old John, who also spells them all out, if spell he can,
I doubt not; or possibly a meeting once in a twelve
month i' the King's Orchard, where they need no guard
to watch lest they attempt some desperate measure.
Yet how is it — canst tell me, monk, how is it that any
henchman in the place would rather watch mon Sieur's
languishing eyes, and the lady's faintly smiling lips, when
they two are alone together, than — "

"Then it is Eleanor, Princess of Brittany?" cried
Anthony, angrily. " And how dare he — your Sieur de
Rien du Tout, raise his presumptuous eyes to one such
as — "

He stopped suddenly. Hugh had laid a quiet finger
on his arm, and was smiling at him, albeit sadly. " Thou
also, Anthony?" he asked. " But be not so wroth with
Louis. No wrong will he ever do, I swear to thee, for his
honor is as quick to fire as thine own. His very worst
offence, I deem, is his torturing of our ears here with
love ditties on his lute, till we go well nigh 'mad with
laughter and — envy. Ma Dame la Princesse is in very
truth scarce likely to see a court again, in all her poor
pitiful life, an I do rightly judge John of England.
Why, then, should not that bit of pleasure, if pleasure
it be, indeed, be won for her by Louis de la Bordelaye,
O monk of the haunted eyes?"

Anthony rose abruptly. " Well, my Lord Count, an
thou hast finished with me for the time, I will e'en bid thee
good-even. My Lord de Burgh awaits me at the inn."

la jHarc^e 203

" Then part not with me in anger, for I trust that
ofttimes we shall meet again."

"Thou hast decided to remain here?"

" 'T was thou didst wake within me a tardy con
science i' the matter. But oh ! the mind of a woman !
How fathom, untangle, or get it into light? Isabella!
'Tis the word most natural to my tongue in any lan
guage ; and yet how far I am ! Nay, now. Thank thee,
and fare thee well, and commend us all to God, — and
to my Lord de Burgh ! "

So it was with a slight smile that Anthony passed
out of the room, bowed gravely to the little group of
gentlemen who sat still before the fire in their common
apartment, and ere long felt the raw night wind sweep
into his eyes, in the courtyard below. Over the draw
bridge and into Saint Peter's square, empty now, and
desolate, and thus down into the dark, narrow, and
filthy streets of the city, he passed. And in ten min
utes he stood again upon the threshold of the Falcon
Inn, which was filling rapidly with guests of an hour,
before whose eyes lay no longer any disturbing vision
of confession and penance for unseemly carousal, to
follow the evening's hilarity.

With his day, his thought, his life, behind him,
Anthony entered in, asking wearily of the landlord
for the apartment of Hubert de Burgh.

CHAPTER XII

THE APOSTASY

HUBERT DE BURGH, attired in a gaily broid-
ered tunic of blue, with white jewelled belt and
fur-bordered shoes of endless length, sat in
one of his rooms, at the Falcon Inn, before a table
upon which lay some curious toilet articles and a
steel mirror. One of his gentlemen of the chamber,
who to-day would be nothing more nor less than a
valet, was combing, perfuming, and twisting his long,
brown hair, while he himself went carefully over his
nails and his well -shaped hands, after the manner of
the French courtiers. At that day no Englishman of
any class took particular care of details of his person,
and those few who had been vain enough to ape the
fashions of a rival nation rarely ventured to mention
it even among themselves, for fear of merited jests.
But it must be acknowledged that the result of De
Burgh's secret pains had won him large reward in the
favor of a king and the envy of a court.

According to the provincial ideas of the Falcon's
keeper, the hour for heavy meats had passed. Evi
dently, however, such was not my lord's notion, since
in the room beyond that in which the toilet was being
performed could be seen a table ready set, laden with
food and richly spiced wines; and the stools beside
it numbered two.

"That is a right shapely curl over my left ear,
Geoffrey. — Hath Martin brought any word as to the
reluctant men-at-arms who must join our train for
Windsor to-morrow?"

205

" 'T is reported that they are reluctant, indeed, my
lord, saying openly that it is in no way their wish to
serve a usurping king."

" Ay — John ! — John ! — 'T is as if the hand of every
man, within his kingdom or out of it, were turned
against him ! De Rupibus and three other bishops,
and Henry, and Peter, and Robert de Laci, — and one
or two others, so few that all could be accommodated
within this very inn, methinks, — these we know.
The others turn by starts toward Rome or Paris. —
How came this scratch across the mirror, Geoffrey?
The line of my nose is grievously obscured by it ! "

" An it please thee, my lord, 't was thine own
signet — "

A stout knock interrupted the man's reply, and De
Burgh motioned him to the door, not rising himself.
Geoffrey opened it with a flourish. Outside stood the
son of the landlord.

" Ohe ! " cried Hubert. " What would you, villain ? "

"Oh, my lord," responded the boy, with a grin of
confusion, " my father bade me say there was a monk
below would see you."

"Anthony at last! — Have him lighted hither in
stantly, boy. Get thee gone! Dost hear? "

When the messenger departed De Burgh rose from
his stool, shaking himself vigorously, and at the same
time sending forth a strong odor of perfume from his
hair and garments. Then he strode into the small
dining-room and surveyed the repast outspread. A
clap of his hands brought another of the train — his
steward — out of a third room.

" Look you now, Edward, have the hot viands
brought in at once, and see that we are right well
served. Some of the wine ye may have heated.
There's a rare chill in the air for a spring night —
and no fire in these petty rooms."

"My Lord de Burgh!"

206 eancanonf?et)

Hubert turned about with smiling haste and held
out both his hands to Anthony, who stood upon the
threshold, behind him.

" Well met and well come, at last, dear monk ! The
sight of thee, Anthony, brightens mine eyes, as doth
that of a lady her lover's." And despite the extrava
gance of the words, De Burgh's pleasure was so evident
that Anthony had almost grasped the hands held out to
him without further ado.

Some other feeling came over him, however, and he
stopped still where he stood, retaining his grave
manner. "'Twill be easier and better without sem
blance between us," he said, with open bitterness.

De Burgh's hands fell to his sides. He stepped
back a pace, and looked earnestly into Anthony's eyes.
Having done so for a long minute, his gay and slightly
artificial air fell from him, and there was sincerity in
his voice as he said in an ordinary tone : "Sit thee
down here at table with me. Thou canst have had full
little to eat to-day. Hot wine and a stew will appear
directly, an I mistake not, We will talk as we satisfy
our hunger."

The monk, seeing nothing simpler to be done, sat
down at one end of the board, the courtier being oppo
site him, at the other. Anthony remained silent,
though he tried to force himself to speak. De Burgh,
after waiting for a little, presently broke silence.

"Well, thou'st seen the Princess, Anthony, — at
last ? "

"At last, yes."

De Burgh took quick note of the tone, but gave no
sign. " And she is as fair as thy fancy painted ? "

" She hath two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and is straight
of limb. I came not to you to prate of a maid. Me-
thinks that by now, at least, De Burgh, you should
know that women are naught to me."

"And yet at Canterbury," mused the courtier,

207

gently, " I mind me that thou wert not so indifferent
to the mention of her. Nay, man, the idea of behold
ing her for thyself brightened thine eyes wondrously."

" You have a long memory. But could you not sur
mise, my lord, that nine months of waiting were suffi
cient to cool such heat? "

"Ay. I forget not that those months must have
been sorely tedious for thee, albeit to me they have
flown like a troubled day, — a fevered day, Anthony,
when we cannot count the turns we make upon the
pillow, and still the twilight seems to fall atop o'
sunrise. But thou, good — Aha ! the stew at last !
It hath an excellent flavor to the nostril, hath it not?
And the wine! Here, fill thy horn, comrade, and
drink with me to our king, thine and mine!"

Despite his persistent gloom, Anthony was affected
by the kindly, jovial manner of this many-sided man,
and, filling his ox-horn with the excellent red bever
age, he looked straight into the clear eyes of De Burgh,
and proved his loyalty with such good-will that his
horn was empty ere he had ceased to drink; — a matter
of custom and necessity alike, indeed, in those days
when " tumblers " were originated. The toast finished,
both set to work upon the pigeons, De Burgh appearing
to be of better appetite than he was; while Anthony
ate honestly of the fare so long strange to his palate.

The monk was first to break this silence, though it
was with slight hesitation that he did so, and only
after a little struggle within himself to let open frank
ness gain the victory. As he spoke he bent over his
trencher, toying with the dagger in his hand, and not
raising his eyes to the other's face.

"Nine months have gone for you like a fevered
dream, Hubert. In all that time had you indeed never
a thought to send a word or a missive bearing greeting
and courage to me? Great man you are; yet once
were a friend, my friend."

208 2Jncanoni?cD

De Burgh finished his bite, regarding Anthony in
puzzled fashion the while. " Robert the Slight — my
churl — bore thee a letter from me — 't was, let me
think, 't was now three months agone. The King was
in France, and I in the North ; and I sent to tell thee
that none had forgotten thee ; that the Princess was stub
born; that France filled John's mind; the Lion mine;
and the Pope the leisure hours of us both. Hast for
got? For I mind me that Robert did deliver it."

Anthony rose slowly to his feet, raising his eyes.
De Burgh met his gaze openly and calmly. "I had
no letter/' said the monk.

De Burgh looked troubled. " Anthony — I swear to
you — 't was sent. Would that the man who carried it
were here. But the wish is useless. He died in
Scotland a month since. — Now might the message
not have reached the hands of some other in the abbey
— the prior, who forgot to give it you — or — "

Anthony sat down again. His expression was im
passive. He did not believe De Burgh; — he could
not. Yet he was generous enough to appreciate and
to forgive the wish for friendship and good-will that
apparently prompted the lie upon the courtier's part.
" Say no more, Hubert. The matter shall be forgot
ten. Doubtless some accident occurred to the missive
that it reached me not. We will speak no more on the
affair."

And Hubert de Burgh, recognizing Anthony's atti
tude, and knowing himself to be powerless, accepted
the inevitable, and silently stretched out his hand,
making only this silent plea for belief.

Anthony accepted the hand, albeit with a scarcely
perceptible hesitation, and with another look into
Hubert's steady eyes. So the incident passed; nine
months of suffering were slid over by a word, but the
trace and the scar remained, sealed invisibly upon
a soul.

209

" And now, Anthony, to business, though affairs of
state after evensong like me none too well. Still,
since I am for London and thou for Glastonbury in
another twelve hours' time, it must be so. — What of
Jocelyn of Bath?"

As he finished this abrupt question there shot into
Hubert's eyes a gleam of -amusement, which Anthony
perceived.

"Jocelyn of Bath? Who is Jocelyn of Bath, my
Lord de Burgh? " he inquired with great deliberation.

The King's favorite laughed loud and deeply.
"That is thou, indeed, the Anthony of old! 'T was
well spoken, I do affirm. ' Who is Jocelyn of Bath ! '
— But be not so bitter, friend; though, verily, thou 'st
right enow to be so, living all claustral-like within
thyself as thou dost. But, ah me, Anthony ! Merry
England 's in moil enow to take ten men's tongues to
recount the happenings since Canterbury Chapter was
dissolved."

" Somewhat of those doings and all their weight I
can surmise, since they have come to end in Interdict
at last," responded the monk, with growing interest.

"Ay, and thy training at court will stand thee in
good stead now, for the tale that must be told thee in
excuse for leaving thee so long without news of the
outer world. Thou shalt see that our life hath been
neither idle nor easy. Now list.

"'T is, as you will guess, this same, ancient, never-
ending quarrel betwixt mitre and crown, that began
half a century ago, with the second Henry, and that
Becket — saint or devil, whichever you like to call
him. Ay, and before him 't was the same thing, if
less bitterly, with the Normans and the Saxons, and
where 't will end — the good God knoweth. The Pope,
the Pope, the Pope would rule earth and heaven
alike, and never a strong king that will not fight for
his right. Since the popes have been, so long, too,

14

has the See of Canterbury made the thorn i' the
wound. This Stephen Langton, as all Christendom
knows, is a French dogmatist, high in favor with
Philip, and leaning ever an eager ear towards each
insidious whisper of his master. Place him in power
second only to the King in England? 'Nay!' cries
John, and with him every loyal Englishman. ' Thou
shalt!' bawls Innocent. Philip of France swells out
in silent importance (greatly do I fear lest some day he
will burst with schemes and vanity, O Anthony!).
And the rest of the world looks on, with finger in
its mouth, and eyes staring. Presently Stephen
catches a wink from his Holiness and grins. The
fighting barons smell trouble; and, comprehending not
the cause, go lock themselves each in his castle, send
insulting couriers to the King, and make them ready,
like the stupid owls they are, to foster siege and rebel
lion. Meantime John, all melancholy, sits at Windsor,
and there do wait upon him envoys from the Pope,
cardinals from the Pope, legates from the Pope, and
fair deputations of our own English bishops, false to
the core, every man of them but three. Each party
hath new wiles, smiles, and propositions. Each the
King receives and sends away, with small etiquette and
promises few. Stephen Langton hurries privily to his
poor rotting See, to learn what favor waits him there.
And Stephen Langton is hurried right speedily out of
Canterbury by his good enemy, John, and landed, with
neither wound nor oath, once more upon the shores of
Normandy. Then the Pope, at last enraged to action,
ordered the Interdict.

"With all this coil, Anthony, there have been rebel
lions in Wales and Ireland, raids upon poor North -
umbria by the accursed William of Scotland, and
discontent where'er it might be hatched. The King
smiles still, but his eyes are weary. Isabella hath
betaken herself again to Winchester to mope and sulk.

211

She refuses to see John. And I — I, Anthony,
throughout the winter, have been my beloved master's
second self. Methinks there is not a single spot where
people dwell in this poor land that I have not stood
upon, with pleasant words, and patience, and largesse
for all. No rest has there been for me, and I am glad
that it is so. I have not had the time to think. But
I swear to thee, Anthony, that ofttimes when I have
glanced at the King's face in an untoward moment, the
tears have started to mine eyes for him.

" And now for the end of all, and the pith of it for
thee: Jocelyn of Bath, Stephen Langton's sworn
friend, the Pope's favored son, and, as he saith him
self (having none better to say it for him), King
John's most loyal subject, hath been in his town of
Bath but once during the winter. Glastonbury he has,
for the moment, ceased to trouble, being intent on
vaguer and greater hopes. Ods blood ! How the
little spider crawls over and through his shaky web of
intrigue ! In a hallucination he dreams that there lie
within it flies for him to eat at leisure ; — Langton and
the King, and, mark you, monk, the good folk who
dwell in the See of Canterbury ! A petty fool he is ;
looking well, he fancies, in his mitre and robes of
state. John will have none of him, Stephen caresses
him, Innacent smiles at him — distantly. Therefore
Glastonbury lies untroubled now, and also, for all these
weary reasons, Anthony, thy mission was useless, and
thou hast been neglected; but earnestly do I beg
forgiveness, since at last thy loneliness is broken, and
thou shalt never be left so again. — My history is
ended. What thinkest thou of it? "

"But the Interdict, Hubert! the Interdict!" cried
Anthony, eagerly, even while once more he cordially
grasped the outstretched hand offered him. " How
doth the King receive that?"

"You forget that I have seen him not since 'twas

212

pronounced. However, when last I was with him in
London he was anticipating its coming. And he
laughed over it — but such a laugh as I have prayed
never to hear again. He will not give in, I promise
you ; nor will the Pope. And so — where will it all
end ? "

"Thine eyes betray thy trouble, Hubert. 'T is a
serious thing, all this; yet not such as should kill a
man. Forget it now, for the nonce, and let us speak
of other things."

De Burgh's face brightened a little, and the corners
of his mouth loosened. "Heigho! Thou 'rt comfort
able, verily, Anthony. And art not discontented at
the want of thy work at Glastonbury?"

" Since I never had it, it is not lost ; and as for con
tent, — one monastery is as good as another, I ween,"
responded the monk, with less life in his tone. The
thought of the monastery had left his head that day for
the first time since his monkhood, and the recurrence
of it was like a blow upon an unhealed wound.

"And for thyself. Thou wert pleased with the
Castle of Bristol town ? " inquired the noble, refilling
his horn.

"I looked not so much at the castle as at its habi
tants."

"Ah ! you saw La Marche, then ? "

" I came to the keep over your scarce cold foot
steps."

"True. I visited him to-day."

"On whose behalf?" questioned Anthony, un
guardedly.

"Whose but the King's?" was the instantly wary
reply.

"Nay. I had thought it perhaps but curiosity on
thy part ; that, or a desire to further me a reputation
with the Count. It appeared that thy tongue had run
right trippingly over my family and myself, Lord

213

Hubert. Thou 'st given me a pretty standard to keep
with them."

Hubert laughed. "Good Anthony, 'twas but an
earnest desire on my part that you should see all the
curiosities within those walls, that led me to laud you
before De la Marche. — Poor man ! I do pity him. He
was a right gallant fighter in the old French days."

Now Anthony, setting down for the last time the
jewelled dagger with which he had been eating, dipped
his hands into the bowl of water set for the purpose,
waved them dry in the air after. the most approved and
elegant manner, then rose restlessly from the table.
He had something to say concerning which he was
unaccountably reluctant.

" Surely thou hast not yet finished?" asked De
Burgh, pleasantly, himself washing his hands, how
ever.

" Ay. I have finished, and must presently be off to
my chamber to sleep."

"'Tis not late. Though both of us will be up
betimes i' the morning."

" Yes. Before I leave thee, however, I have some
what to request on behalf of the Princess Eleanor."

" So-ho ! Already knight-errant and protector, eh ? "
responded De Burgh, using, however, a most agreeable
tone.

" 'T is naught that thou needst fear, Hubert. Only
this: the lady is pitifully weary of her life, of its
lonely monotony, and of her only companions, the
two French demoiselles, who, as thou knowest, have
been with her since she left Falaise. I did promise,
when I left her, that, an thou wouldst consent, I
would bring to her on my next visit a new attendant,
one of our own English girls, who would be willing to
be excluded from the world an she might serve the
Princess. — What sayest thou ? "

De Burgh was silent for some moments; then he

214 2Jncanoni?eD

asked : " Who is the woman ? — Some one near to
Eleanor's own station, who knows somewhat of courts
and kings and lies?"

" Nay, just the opposite to all of that. She is but a
peasant maid, the daughter of the tenant of one of the
Glastonbury farms, who is, methinks, in danger from
one or two of the lay-brothers, farmerers of the abbey.
'T would be a boon to her to take her away for a little
time."

" Um. So it might seem. — What says the Princess
to the introduction of a peasant to her household ?
And the girl knows not French, I should surmise."

"Those are two reasons why the Lady Eleanor is
most eager for her coming. 'T is aught for novelty to
a prisoner."

"So. How think you that your peasant would be
treated by the demoiselles d1 honneur of her grace?
Would there not be jealousy, haughtiness, and much
unhappiness ? "

" Of that I know little. 'T would be a Babel indeed
an they quarrelled. But that is not for us to think
upon. Wilt thou consent to the plan ? "

"Methinks the King would find small objection to
it. Thou mayest bring the maid."

"Thank thee, my lord — "

"But hark you, she must have no communication
with the outer world, be assured. The Lady Eleanor
is a prisoner of state, and, as such, a dangerous one.
Once within the castle 'twill be more difficult to
release the girl. Will she consent to the plan, think
you?"

"I can but lay it before her," responded the monk,
thoughtfully. It suddenly occurred to him that he
had not much considered Mary's feelings in the
matter.

"Enough, then. And now, Anthony, for thee. For
a time this Interdict will cause a lull in the action of

215

the quarrel. His Holiness and Philip will, perforce,
lie back and wait to perceive the effect of their last
blow. John must have time to learn its influence over
the people, for he runs a dangerous chance. There
fore I, servant of the one, antagonist of the others,
will find myself in so far benefited by the truce that I
shall have more leisure for many things than of late
hath fallen to my share. So rest assured that thy old
lot at Glastonbury will be changed. Once in the
month, at least, I shall send for thee hither; and what
I command, Harold must obey. Mine ancient play
fellow shall be ever in my heart — as he hath been,
Anthony, though with reason thou doubtest me. And
so, good-night ; and, for the nonce, fare thee well."

While he spoke, Hubert had moved closer to the
monk, and, with his last words, laid his hand upon the
coarsely covered shoulder. In silence Anthony grasped'
De Burgh's other hand. Then, with a pressure, a long
look, and a smile, that seemed not all for the states
man, he left the room.

The favorite glanced after him thoughtfully, and,
even when he had long passed from sight, stood star
ing into space, with unseeing eyes. "Thou art a
monk," he murmured. "And a miserable man thou
thinkest thyself. But oh, Anthony! if thou couldest
but know how gladly I would lay off these garments,
and with them all my struggles to keep pace with other
men, for the sackcloth and the monotonous peace of a
Benedictine abbey ! "

De Burgh turned sharply about, and clapped his
hands. Instantly his lackey entered, with bended
head.

"Clear this table, Geoffrey, and then have the cap
tain of my guard sent hither. I would confer with
him about the new men."

It was nearly ten o'clock in the evening when
Anthony left De Burgh's rooms to go to his own nar-

216 (Hncanoni?eD

row sleeping-apartment. Upon his way along the ill-
floored hallway he passed the top of the stairs which
led down to the main room of the inn upon the ground
floor. Up this stairway came to him the sounds of a
half dozen unguarded phrases whose meaning struck
interest into the monk's ears. They were unusual
things to be spoken in a tavern, and at this hour of
the night. All unconscious of his action, he paused
to listen.

"And think you that 'twas the King who com
manded the Interdict ? "

" A soul for a soul, say I — "

"And wouldst have Innocent's in exchange for
thine?"

There was a shout of laughter, broken by the bold
reply : -

"On my life, no! Bound I may be for hell, for
want of venial absolution. I would not go out from
earth with Innocent's weight of sin and crime upon
my shoulders ! "

" Hush ! Not so fast ! Some one may hear ! "

An instant quiet descended over the room, broken
only by the murmur of an indistinguishable voice,
which spoke for some minutes, interrupted now and
again by a grunt of assent or an exclamation of dis
agreement.

Anthony, above, hesitated. He was greatly curious
to hear all of this unwonted dispute, plot, or whatever
it was; yet fully aware that the appearance of his
gown and cowl must of necessity stop at once all talk
ing, whether for or against the Church. He vacillated
for only a short time. When an idea occurred to him
he was accustomed to judge it as soon as his mind
could be brought to bear upon the subject. At last he
turned hastily and went back to De Burgh's rooms.
That gallant gentleman was still alone, his captain
not having come as yet. He greeted Anthony with

217

surprise, which feeling turned to sudden mirth at the
monk's straightforward proposition and request.

" Nay — I know not, verily, Anthony ! 'T is against
your vows. 'T would be an adventure for a hare-brained
courtier. You wish but to listen? In the cause of
the Church, doubtless?"

Anthony smiled brightly but made no answer.

"And for thy tonsure? They would see that."

"A cap, my lord."

De Burgh pondered for a moment, then leaned back
and laughed again, heartily.

"Well, be it so. Come in here. Thou shalt be
undisturbed. Return with them when thou art through
thy game, — and hasten now, indeed, lest their con
verse be over soon."

The Falcon Inn, on this Monday night, contained a
little throng of guests of unusual estate. The com
mon roysterers had been driven away early in the
evening to more congenial haunts by the grave
demeanor and spirit of deep controversy which seemed
to dominate the majority in the tavern. And these
were all who had remained. Widely, indeed, did such
men differ from the common, younger classes. They
were ruder men, more rudely born, homely in counte
nance and dress, showing in the eyes a lustre of
thought that was lacking in the Englishman of com
mon class of that dim, distant day; betraying in their
every move an earnestness and a spirit that was rarely
to be discovered. And whether the men of such a type
had come together by purpose or chance in this place,
it was certainly a curious fact that the heavy doors of
the inn, which usually stood hospitably open to all
men, of an evening, were now shut fast, and bolted.

Had it happened that one of to-day had been caught
up and carried back, seven hundred years, and set
down inside this great room for a dozen minutes, he
might have caught a curious notion, this: that the

2i 8

great English Reformation, still, according to history,
centuries away, down the future, was already begun,
here in this western city of Bristol, and in no less
imprudent a place than the great room of the Falcon
Hostelrie. The grave, puzzled converse into which
these men had fallen held the germ of the liberty of
thought that has not even yet reached its full matur
ity, though to-day Atheist, Catholic, and Protestant
stand together, undisturbed, and no man, in Religion's
name, lifts a hand against a brother.

Not one iota of such prophetic vision, however,
penetrated the minds of these leather-clad burghers,
who interspersed their timid discussion with genu
flection and jest. Their ideas were vague and ill-
expressed. Only the dim feeling, nothing more, was
there. How should any hint of breadth have crept
into their hearts? All their lives long they had been
hurled down and bruised by the pitiless dogmas flung
out in the same breath with threats of torture everlast
ing, as punishment for unbelief. Surely, then, it was
enough, at this day, that even this feeble little plant
of doubt, sprung rather from a seed of anger than
reason, had pushed its way between the stones of such
a wall.

To tell the truth, this concourse at the Falcon was
not the first of its kind, but the third, — and the third
within a remarkably short space of time. None of
those present would have dared call any one of them
a planned meeting. They were met purely by chance,
and the cause of their meeting was the Interdict — that
oft-talked-of threat that now was here. It was the In
terdict and the arguments over it that had led Master
Plagensext, the landlord, a worthy man, but one of
ideas, to close his doors at so early an hour against
possible guests and intruders. My Lord de Burgh
and his train were of no consequence. They would
trouble no one, being friends, — kingsmen. As for

219

the lordly monk, — he, too, was my lord's good friend,
and a quiet fellow, like to take small note of a
burgher. There was no fear of him while half a dozen
of the great noble's men-at-arms were themselves
seated about the dining-room, joining right gallantly
in the talk, being still sober and in fighting trim.
The conversation did not flag.

"Sinful or no, friends, — and methinks 'twould be
deemed sinful were it far o'erheard, — there is one
point i' this Interdict that ye cannot make just, try as
ye will. And that — "

"That is," came an interruption, "that we had no
hand in the refusal of Archbishop Langton, and why,
therefore, should we suffer for it, under this Inter
dict?"

"'Tis the King's fault, and no other's," growled a
sour-visaged fellow at the farther end of the room.

At his words one of the soldiers in the corner
stamped heavily upon the floor. " Ods nails ! Sir
Lean-face ! An we have aught more o' that treason I
shall make short work of running thee through, small
as thou art!"

The little man squirmed and frowned, but remained
silent.

Then one of the three great fellows, who, seated
importantly at the centre-table, had, all through the
evening, ruled the trend of the discourse, and done
much of the talking, lifted a huge flagon of ale to his
lips, and drank deeply, and with heavy import. When
he set down the frothing liquor, there was attentive
silence about him. He spoke: —

"There is, verily, somewhat wrong in the tangle,
howe'er you look at it. His Holiness maketh us, for
no cause of our own, to suffer the danger of losing our
souls. Yet, an we rebel at it, the King and his
troops give us good promise that we lose our bodies.
How is this? Is there no right for us? — We are

220 2Jncanoni?eti

men, even like King and Pope. How, then, should
they press us into misery as they do?"

There was an utter silence. The very soldiers were
stilled by the non-belligerent trouble of the tone. With
his untrained wits, and intellect weakened by long
disuse, each man there sat trying to solve the problem
over which half of Christendom was itself poring at
that day. Upon this puzzled and painful stillness fell
a voice, not with any startling suddenness; it was too
mellow for that ; but one to which each man suddenly
found himself listening, astonished at the thing that
it was saying, into his ear, and to him, alone, and
straight.

" My masters, in all your surmises as to King and
Pope, and how they should rule you, your souls and
bodies, as they seem to do, have ye in truth forgot
that it was not they who made you to be ruled ? That
it was not they who made themselves? Hath it, in
deed, never occurred to you, in your wisdom, that it
is God, not Pope, who ruleth over sin and injustice,
who will see that ye be judged according as ye have
lived; to whom ye owe loyalty and allegiance above
all others; for whom there is neither pope nor king,
but only man, — his child? "

Every eye had turned to the corner at the stair's
foot, where stood a man ; slight, neither young nor
old, clad in a sober suit, tunic, hose, belt, and cap of
olive green. A shapely leg had he and a good
shoulder, and a well-turned wrist and hand. All this
was absorbed by degrees into the slow minds of those
before him. Then one of the soldiers rose, threaten
ingly; but for once a burgher was ahead of him,
advancing, flagon still in hand, toward the stranger.

Halting, at length, two feet away from the new
comer, he asked ominously, "Who art thou? "

And then from behind, out of every throat in the
room, came an echo of the words, " Who art thou ? "

221

Anthony looked calmly about him. "A stranger
here and to you, good men, yet truly a friend in
thought and heart," he answered, in a quiet mono
tone.

"More like a spy from King — or Pope — " came
from the lean man in the corner; and at his words
there was a universal shudder.

One of the soldiers sprang to his feet. " Come,
masters, would ye have him killed? If so, my good
sword is ready."

There was a murmur of remonstrance at this, how
ever; and when it ceased, Anthony was speaking
again, still with easy nonchalance.

" Why, good people, do ye condemn me thus ? I am
no spy, that I swear, but rather one who thinks with
you, and curses the injustice of the anathema put
upon us all. Why not hear me, what I have to say,
ere you judge me? " Here he turned smilingly toward
the soldier, who turned suddenly red and speedily sat
down. " Let me stand there by the central table, and
there I will tell you what hath long lain in my heart.
By it shall ye know me."

He looked questioningly about upon them all, and
they were silent. Silence consents, or so Anthony
regarded it. Forthwith he walked over to the table
and unhesitatingly took his stand. Here, and now,
was preached the first non-Romish sermon in the
Island of Britain.

"Friends, I have been listening many minutes now
to your converse here together, and your words have
entered into my ears like water into the throat of a
man who dies of thirst. For many years have I longed
to hear thoughts such as yours expressed. Only ye say
too little for the truth. Now, as brothers, do I greet
you all.

"You have been speaking of this newly pronounced
Interdict, which, for no other reason than a royal vow,

222

hath deprived you all of what ye have been taught is
your soul's salvation, — confession and absolution ; hath
damned your infants from their birth, by denial of
baptism ; and refused your sacred dead a sacred burial.
And who is it that hath had so little to fear for his
own soul that he hath dared to do all this? A man;
of the race of men; no more than a younger son of
Trasimundo of Conti. Ten thousand men of Italy, or
England either, are as lofty of birth. And in the
sight of the Most High we are taught that pride of
blood is as nothing. How, then, should Innocent of
Rome have power over all of us, to damn us into hell
eternal for the sake of a quarrel with King John over
Canterbury? Too long, brethren, hath the Church of
Rome bade you look to it and its calendared saints for
salvation. Who is it that saves them? God, and
the Christ, and Mary Queen of Heaven, they will
answer. Then why should we fail to turn to these as
our hope; and heed but the words of priest and bishop,
who are themselves but sinners? This Interdict,
which looks so woeful a calamity, and so unmerited a
punishment, may be readily turned against the soul of
him who sent it on us; and he shall see, when it be
finally removed, that we are no longer grovelling
before the lattice of the confessional, but acknowledg
ing our sins and receiving absolution only at the
throne of Jesus of Nazareth, the all-pitying One, and
of our just God, the Father."

Anthony ceased to speak, but his face, that was so
deeply marked by suffering, had become transfigured
by the depth of feeling which had led him, thus unex
pectedly, to lay his heart bare before men. The aban
donment with which he had spoken had carried the
listeners with him into enthusiasm and belief, for the
moment. Their minds had, involuntarily, gone beyond
them. When the leader relinquished his hold, they
dropped heavily back again. Poor, stunted intellects!

223

They were not to be forced. This Anthony perceived
at once; but he saw also, with a strange feeling of
hope, that some instinctive impression of truth had
been left. Seating himself upon a stool he looked
about him, his face dark again, and his eyes less
brilliant.

"This — be — heresy," came at last in nervous tones
from one of the large men.

" Heresy ! " responded the feeble, frightened echo of
the rest.

"Heresy — "they would call it," assented Anthony,
with a saddened look. " Ye fear to go on ? "

"We — we would think upon it, Sir Knight."

Fitz-Hubert brightened. "Ye shall have time,"
he said. "Ye shall have a full month, friends."

"A month? — Nay, 'twould scarce take so long,
think you? " asked one, looking about at his fellows.

In answer there was a universal murmur of " Nay,
not so long as that," and much shaking of heads.

As Anthony perceived the undoubted interest in the
matter a new feeling stirred at his heart. It took him
a moment to guide his voice to indifference. "It
must be a month ere I can come again to you. I
dwell not in Bristol. Early on the morrow's morn I
do depart, and shall not again come hither until this
time in April."

"Art of my Lord de Burgh's following?"

" Ask me not. Mayhap, — perchance not. What
matters it ? "

At this the landlord, Martin Plagensext, who, all
this time, had stood at one side of the room against
the wall, looked long and scrutinizingly at the well-
disguised figure, with its closely covered head. If he
discovered anything he did not speak. Should An
thony's calling be disclosed, he would undoubtedly
suffer death on the spot, as being a spy, sent to entrap
these men. Master Martin would not dare a murder

224

within his doors; and, moreover, his intellect, keener
than the rest, had probably perceived what no one else
had thought to doubt, that Anthony's words, whatever
his motive, were sincere and heartfelt. At any rate,
action or inaction being alike dangerous, the landlord
chose the momentarily lesser evil, thereby deciding
his own destiny and that of Fitz-Hubert.

The monk went slowly to the stairs; all the others,
more from habit or curiosity than respect, standing, as
he passed from them. Seeing that they did not speak,
he turned half about, before he left them, cast a half
smile into their midst, and spoke : " Good-even, friends,
and peace be with you \ "

"But thou wilt return? " called out one of his little
audience.

"Thou wouldst have me, verily? "

"Ay! verily! " from all parts of the room.

"Then so be it. An I live I will be here upon the
evening of April the thirtieth, a month from to-night.
We shall speak further, then, — when you have
thought."

And with a sharp gleam from his dark eyes, and a
gesture of good -will, Anthony disappeared up the stair
way. A moment later he was once more admitted to
De Burgh's bedroom, where that lofty personage re
ceived him alone, with amusement and curiosity.

" 'T is indeed a pity, Anthony, that thou hast oppor
tunities so rare of showing off that shapely leg of
thine. Verily, I would that mine were of half so neat
a turn."

"Then thou canst give me a quondam chance of
exhibition, an thou wilt, good my lord."

"What now, rash one? "

" May I ask two favors, Hubert? "

"Surely thou mayest ask, friend. But I promise
not to connive at all thy adventures."

" They are these : first, that thou make me a present

225

of the garb I wear, — 't is the first time ever I begged
my clothes, Hubert; secondly, that, whether thou art
here or wouldst see me or no, thou wilt send a messen
ger to Glastonbury, demanding my presence at Bristol
on the thirtieth of April next, — and this last espe
cially I do most ardently desire."

De Burgh clapped his hands over his knee, and
stared long and thoughtfully at the monk. " I know
not, Anthony. Dost, indeed, realize the risk of
carrying this madcap folly further?"

"It is not folly, Hubert. Risk there is, I do
admit, and one in which I glory. Grant me — ay, as
payment for my past misery (for I will be ungenerous
in my fervor) — • these things that I do ask. I have so
little in my life, Hubert! Think! Think!"

" You disarm me, Anthony. They are granted. And
yet I warn you, for your own sake, boy; I warn you
that I fear for you."

"Fear? Why?"

"You must know well what discovery would bode.
And yet, I, too, love not the popish ways."

" Hubert ! Didst hear, then ? "

De Burgh started. It was not an admission that he
should have made. Even Anthony himself would
scarcely have imagined that his requests could have
been granted had De Burgh known of his speech, and
his intent to follow it out. But now my lord looked up
at him gravely. "I am, indeed, a heretic at heart,"
he whispered.

"And I!" echoed Anthony, with fierce abandon.
" Rome I renounce ! From the bottom of my soul I
cry to you my disbelief! With all my hope of seeing
God, and as I pray for the eternal happiness of my
father, I renounce them all, — monk, priest, and pope,
— and open my arms and my spirit alike to what they
have denounced as heresy ! "

CHAPTER XIII

AN EXCOMMUNICATED KING

EIGHTEEN months had passed since the Interdict,
- months filled with a monotony of misery to the
afflicted country. The fulfilment of the prom
ised horrors of their unmerited degradation had fairly
cowed the English people ; but they had not weakened
England's King. By the September of 1209 the patience
of Archbishop, Cardinal, and Pope, which had been ex
ceeding great and well-continued, as they themselves
said, and nobody dared deny, suddenly gave out. Not
a single sign, even of the slightest, had John shown, of
submission to Langton ; therefore, another block of iron
was added to his burden. On September twelfth the
King was personally excommunicated ; and Jocelyn of
Bath was in despair. He was forbidden to defile himself
by any contact with John ; and his skilled manipulations
of circumstances were checked.

The anathema against the King was pronounced
while he was up on the borders of Scotland, giving one
last, agonizing tickle to the Lion, who was already
weakened by much hysterical laughter caused by the
same process. The news of the fresh punishment was
brought northward by a special courier, who crossed
himself before he ventured to address the unbeloved of
the Pope. By leisurely stages John journeyed back to
his palace at Winchester, whence Isabella had suddenly
departed, leaving her children behind her. The clergy
of Winchester, to the humblest monk, turned its head
away when the King and his train rode through the

€]ccommunicateti fting 227

streets of the city. Next morning, however, the sun
rose as usual.

Upon that thirtieth of September, just at the dawn of
the mellow autumn day, five gentlemen entered the ante
room to the royal dining-apartment, there to await the
morning appearance of their liege. All the five were
men of lofty birth, were themselves willing to forget the
Church and their own souls for the sake of him who
was both their king and their friend, and were those
whose names were oftenest on England's lips in relation
to public matters : Geoffrey Fitz-Peter, chief-justiciary
of the realm, a white-haired peer; Hubert de Burgh;
Hugo de Neville, the head-forester of England, whose
office was no sinecure in those days; Roger de Laci,
a gallant courtier and an excellent comrade ; and Peter
Fitz-Herbert, a baron of no great position save that of
boon companion to all the others and to the King.
These five were by no means the only stanch nobles
who had remained with the court; and there were
others, still true to their liege, who were scattered over
the realm, in England, Ireland, or Wales. But this privi
leged group was more with him than any of the others ;
for, to tell the truth, John had small heart to receive
numbers, when, according to his Holiness, he was no
longer King by divine right. The friends spoke but
little to each other, as they waited. Each was occupied
with his own thoughts. Presently, however, De Neville
looked up.

" I am told that the forest fairly swarms, at present,
with game, if the King chooses to hunt this morning."

" Ever at thy professional tasks, Hugo?"

There was a little smile ; for De Neville's devotion to
the chase was a matter of many a sally in other times
than these. .

" It may indeed please the King to forget his trouble
in the excitement of the hounds," remarked Peter Fitz-
Herbert, mournfully.

228

" Nay, nay, gentlemen. John will be wearied by his
long journey to-day, and it were best not to tempt him
to over-doing by prospect of a hunt," expostulated De
Burgh, while the rest listened respectfully. Nothing
more was said upon the matter, and again silence fell
over the little party. This lasted until a door was
thrown open, and a lackey entered with the words : —

" Gentlemen, the King."

The five rose at once. Voices were heard in the
corridor, near at hand.

" Salisbury is with him," whispered De Laci.

There was no reply, for the King was entering the
room, arm in arm with his half-brother.

" Good-morning to you all, friends. Thou art rested,
Geoffrey, I trust? Come, gentlemen, we break fast to
gether. I, for one, am an hungered."

John spoke these words in a somewhat monotonous
tone, and then led the way into his dining-room,
through whose open windows streamed the fearless
beams of the autumn sun. Here the King, most slan
dered monarch of the Christian era, sat him cheerfully
down.

John of England was still comparatively a young
man, being under forty-five years of age. In the cruel
glare of the morning light, however, he looked strangely
old. His skin was as white as that of a corpse, not a
particle of color enlivening it anywhere; and its minute
corrugations gave him a haggard and weary appearance,
difficult to describe. His short beard and moustache
were black, well sprinkled with gray ; though the curling
hair that hung upon his neck was still of a pure raven
hue. His hands were shapely, and bore no rings.
His well-proportioned figure was set off by a plain
dark-green tunic with leathern trimmings, hose of the
same color, and short shoes. He was, altogether, a
handsome man, and there was enough of personal charm
in his manner to make it explicable why such a mon-

(^communicated &ing 229

ster in spirit should possess so many and such close
friends.

Between William of Salisbury and the King there was
a slight personal resemblance, nearly concealed, how
ever, by the Earl's excessive fairness. The close friend
ship between the half-brothers was productive of mutual
good. Both were honorable, chivalrous gentlemen.
By his frequent intercourse with William, John gained
something of a needed calm in demeanor; a fierce out
burst of temper, which was his greatest bane, being
oftentimes subdued by the mere appearance of the
gentle-mannered Earl. And Salisbury, shining in the
reflected light of John's marked individuality, lost much
of the effeminacy and unmasculine softness for which
he was laughed at in some circles of nobility.

Such was the company that assembled at the royal
board at so early an hour in the morning; a king,
exiled in his own land, and the companions of that
exile, made holy in unrighteousness. For the first time
in many a year John was about to taste rest in his own
palace. No duties of Church or of State awaited him,
upon his return to his own again. The Church had
openly banished him from her councils ; the State stood
aloof from his presence, waiting and doubting. Ah !
how bitter was the thought of this rest to him ! Face,
manner, and voice all betrayed weariness and sadness ;
yet his words themselves bore not a trace of feeling. His
companions were his familiars. They knew him, his
lineage, his history, his faults, his character, better than
any others. Knowing all, they loved him. He, real
izing this, was himself when with them.

John was in a difficult mood. The courtiers recog
nized the fact before he had been with them for five
minutes. They knew that the first untoward remark from
any of them would be apt to drive him into one of those
prolonged fits of melancholy for which his race was so
noted. He sat looking down into his plate, whereon

230

the food was untasted. With one hand he crumbled a
piece of black bread, with the other he played with the
handle of a silver flagon filled with mead. When he
spoke it was still with a tone curiously expressionless,
and his remarks were jumbled together in a manner
peculiar to himself and this particular state of mind.

" A boar's head is an excellent thing at noonday, but
something heavy for a man newly risen. Have it re
moved, Edward. We must arrange some pastime for
the day. Eh? Say you not so, Fitz-Herbert? And
how is thy young Lord of Dunster, De Burgh? and all
our western county, and our good friend De Briwere? "

The King glanced up for an instant, languidly, at
Hubert, after he had stopped speaking. Fitz-Herbert
moved uneasily upon his stool ; but De Burgh, acting on
a look from Salisbury, replied : —

" Young Reginald de Mohun grows into a manly boy
hood. Well hath he been taught what he owes to his
King ; and in his knighthood he will make a devoted
subject of England and England's lord.'

" Um. Were I not in disgrace with Christendom I
would have had him knighted and brought to court by
now, to count by. But a palace, priestless and Godless,
with neither mass nor confessional permitted within it, is
a sorry place for an unfledged youth. In very sooth I
have a mind to return all my young hostage pages to
their noble families. Though, an I did that, it were as
well at once to deliver up crown and seal to one of their
fathers. 'T would be an easy method of laying down my
load, in very faith ! What say you to the notion,
Peter?"

The chief-justiciary was not startled. The King had
been known to make such remarks before. Now he re
sponded gravely : " My liege, you yourself could bear
least the calamities which would fall upon England
through your abdication. Well do you know how, with
you gone, either civil war would descend upon the

(^communicate!) ling 231

realm, or France would rule our kingdom through Ar
thur, your nephew, — a petty boy. Neither you nor
England would endure that."

The King swiftly raised his head, looking with fixed
intensity at the old official. Then he lifted a hand to
his brow. It seemed that of a sudden his eyes had
grown darker and more melancholy. " Thou sayest,
Peter, that my abdication could not be. That is true,
perhaps. But thy last reason for England's sorrow is
impossible. Arthur of Brittany, Geoffrey's boy, will
never rule in England ; for Arthur, our nephew, lies to
day in heaven or in hell, I know not which."

A sharp breath went round the table. No one there
dared speak. There was a change in the expression of
every man, save only that of William of Salisbury. The
suspicion in Fitz-Herbert's face was scarcely concealed.
In the sudden, chilly silence John's head fell, and his
eyes closed for a moment. He had seen. The heart
within him bled. These oldest friends — even these —
could not trust him.

Earl William gazed long at his brother, and his face
was full of tenderness and pity. Then he looked up
and spoke, his tone scornful, his voice ringing loud and
clearly through the room.

" How now, gentlemen ! Have ye no word of sorrow
for the Prince's loss? No question to ask as to the
manner of his death?"

Every man at the table winced, and John glanced up
again. None of the others could guess whether the
words were ironical or in earnest. Still there was si
lence. John's shoulders contracted. His brows met
over his eyes. He breathed deeply, and a quick spasm
of pain passed over his face. He said nothing. Salis
bury, after a little glance around the table, continued :

" I perceive that ye must have the tale. Three
months ago John de Gray and I were in the Castle of
Rouen together, when Arthur of Brittany at last came to

232 2Jncanpni?ct)

his senses. After a long interview with us he did finally
decide to abandon his useless project of becoming King
of England, which title was his right by birth, but which
you, gentlemen, and not King John, did strip from him
at Richard's death. He professed himself willing at last
to become reconciled to his uncle, and desired to return
with us to Windsor, as the King's ward. This was be
fore the excommunication had again raised Philip's
hopes for the throne of England. France's King
learned of Arthur's new decision. He felt that his
hold on England was going. Some new scandal must
be brought against John. Five days later, when we were
hourly expecting the King's order for the Prince's release,
Arthur of Brittany was foully murdered by order of
Philip, the arch-traitor of Europe."

William spoke these last words without emotion, for
the tale was old to him. The King did not even look
up. His head rested upon one hand, and he sat abso
lutely motionless. It was Hubert de Burgh who rose
quickly to his feet. The rest waited for him to speak.
He did so without hesitation.

" Thou knowest the rumors that have had wing con
cerning Prince Arthur, my Lord Earl? "

"Who better?" responded William, sharply.

" And they are false ? " questioned the courtier, fear
lessly.

Salisbury looked up with unwonted anger in his pale
face. " Since when hast thou learned to doubt my given
word, Hubert de Burgh? Thou —

The four quiescent courtiers were looking at each
other dubiously, when the King himself, rising to his
feet, interrupted his brother. His voice was not gentle,
but harsh with strong feeling, although anger was in
neither his face nor his words. He addressed not De
Burgh alone, but all five of the old friends who stood
close about him.

" I declare to you, gentlemen, in the presence of the

€]ccommiinicateD Sling 233

God from whom Innocent of Rome hath not the power
to bar me, that I am absolutely innocent of the murder
of my brother's son, Arthur of Brittany. Moreover, at
the very hour of his death, I was, as can be proved,
upon the waters of the British Channel, on my way to
Rouen, in answer to the message of my brother here,
and my Lord de Gray, whither I was going to extend
free pardon and personal protection to my nephew.
You who are here about me, my friends (though in very
sooth ye doubt my honor right easily), are welcome to
have heard my vindication. To England and my people
I owe none, sith they have asked for none, but have
chosen rather to believe the worst that rumor hath to
tell about their King. And be ye all well assured that
John of England will never bend the knee to any man,
pope or serf, who refuses him the right granted to the
lowliest of his subjects."

Such were the words of the King, spoken here, in pri
vate, to his intimate companions. But they were words
that the world was never to hear, either from his lips or
those of any other. One by one, in silent repentance for
their doubt of him, his courtiers knelt down and kissed
his hand in loyalty and renewed love. Last of all ad
vanced Earl William, in whose bright blue eyes shone
tears of overwrought emotion. Him the King forbade
to kneel, but saluted with affection upon the cheek, an
action regarded without surprise by the sturdy English
men present; for Rosamond's unselfish son had some
thing in his nature with which Eleanor the masculine
had failed to endow her own children, but which John
regarded with much of the feeling that, long ago, had
drawn his father so closely to the one woman whom he
had really loved.

The atmosphere about the royal presence was cleared.
The heart of the King had suddenly grown light, and the
tone of his voice now betrayed his changed mood.

" Come, friends, let us to mine own apartments, and

234

there choose out our pastime for the day, sith for the
nonce I am burdenless alike of councils and of the endless
deputations of conscience-wearing monks and bishops.
Now who shall say that excommunication hath not its
comforts, eh?"

A little glance of satisfaction passed among his follow
ers at his last words, for it was the first time that John,
of his own accord, had spoken of his punishment. That
he should do so now, was taken as a propitious omen of
the return of that cheerfulness for which, through all his
difficulties, he had been so noted. More light-heartedly
than at any period during the last month, therefore, all
assembled in a small room next to the King's bedcham
ber. Once this apartment had been used as an oratory,
but the prie-dieu had been removed from it, and in its
place stood a kind of settle, or couch, upon which John
now flung himself. The sun, which streamed in upon
him from a window above his head, he permitted with
delight to play over his figure, and even upon his face ;
for sunshine was a thing of which his life had known
none too much. The courtiers, except Fitz-Peter, who
had been excused on the plea of official business, seated
themselves about the little room, and waited in silence
for the King to speak. This he seemed in no hurry to
do. Evidently his thoughts were wandering in not un
pleasant places, for a half smile played over his lips and
lighted his eyes.

"There stands a certain little dwelling, not far from
Winchester," began John, suddenly, " where once I did
meet a maid, and she was passing fair." Here he
stopped, still smiling to himself.

" It beginneth like a minstrel's tale," murmured De
Laci, complacently.

De Burgh frowned a little, and Salisbury spoke,
imploringly.

" Nay, John, let me beseech that you tell it not."

The King looked over the faces of his companions,

3ln (^communicated SKt'ng 235

caught a dark look from De Neville, and a hesitating
smile from Fitz-Herbert. Then he put his finger-tips
together, and continued in a well-satisfied tone, though
with an unnoticed gleam of displeasure in his eyes : -

" The little maid, I say, was passing fair. When first
I saw her I was upon a hunt. My good steed had borne
me, all alone, straight out of the forest, after the stag,
which, after all, escaped. The little maid knew not my
estate. I asked a tankard of cold water from her well.
She gave it me, I myself having pulled the bucket up.
I drank my draught. And then — "

"Then, my Lord King? " demanded De Burgh, in a
tone that might have been called disrespectful.

" Then," returned John, solemnly, " then I rode away
again."

" And hast not seen her since? " questioned Salisbury,
quickly and softly.

" No, Brother William," responded the King, with
irony very apparent in his tone. " I have not seen her
since."

Again the King lapsed into silence, but this time his
little audience knew why. Before the pause grew un
comfortable, however, John sat up, languidly, on his
couch, and put his feet to the floor.

" Well, Hugo," he began, when there was an inter
ruption.

Through the open doorway, from the apartments
beyond, sounded a high, shrill voice, calling loudly:
" My Lord William ! My Lord William ! "

The Earl of Salisbury, who faced the door, smiled, and
leaned forward on his stool. Suddenly, before any one
had had time to speak, a little bounding figure, with
long hair flying behind it, and miniature coif askew, ran
into the room, and flung itself with a leap into William's
outstretched arms.

" Oh, but I have hunted for thee ! " gasped the voice
again.

236

Deftly, and with a hand accustomed to the business,
Salisbury straightened out the rumpled little object, and,
with as severe a look as could be mustered, set it down
upon the floor. There, in quaint astonishment at seeing
so many strange faces, stood a tiny little girl. Her
woollen garments of dark red trailed upon the floor
about her feet just as her mother's did. A small, peaked
cap, with a torn veil falling from its summit, was set
over her dishevelled black curls. Her dark eyes were
sparkling from the vigor of her run, and her face glowed
with color. Earl William looked down at her with
great tenderness in his face as she clasped his knees.

"Thou hast escaped thy nurse, Lady Alice. It is
a great breach of etiquette, *as thou knowest. Thou
shouldst be punished for it, and also for thus entering,
without permission, thy royal father's closet."

" My father ! " she cried quickly, turning about and
facing the King, who sat regarding her soberly. Instantly
the Princess, frightened though she was, dropped him a
low and well-learned courtesy. Then, still looking at
him with her great eyes, she backed slowly into the
nearer vicinity of her uncle ; for Princess Alice of Eng
land was not very well acquainted with her father.

The courtiers watched the scene with interest. A
strange story of a strange passion lay behind this un
foreseen meeting of the King and his daughter. None
of the onlookers ventured to speak, however, nor did
any betray ill taste enough to show curiosity in the
matter.

" Thou art somewhat over- fond of rough play, me-
seemeth, Alice," said her father, slightly ill at ease
before her.

" An it please you, yes, my Lord King," responded
the little lady, with but small trace of fear in her voice.
She was regaining her self-possession rapidly.

" A Princess of England does not run about and
scream. Thy nurses should have taught thee better."

an «E]ccommimicateD fting 237

" They did teach me better," replied her ladyship ;
and Salisbury and De Burgh ventured to smile.

" Aha ! And thou didst disobey them. Come, then,
I will not punish thee. Kiss me once, and then thine
Uncle Salisbury shall take thee back again to thine own
apartment."

The King held out one arm to her, but she did not
come forward.

" Pardon, my lord, but — but I may not kiss you," she
said, with a troubled air.

The King and his gentlemen alike stared in astonish
ment. "Why — why mayest thou not kiss thy father?"
asked John, at last.

" My mother did tell me, ere she went away, that his
Holiness the Pope had — had — nay, I forget the word.
But you had done dreadful things, she said, and Europe
is angry with you, and no good church person can touch
you. Therefore may I not kiss you."

With childish innocence the little girl had spoken
these heartless words, and she wondered at seeing the
King suddenly cover his face with his hands. The
courtiers looked at one another in consternation, all
save Salisbury, whose face was very pale. After an in
stant's pause he rose, and, crossing to the King, took
one of the passive hands from his face, and kissed it
with gentle reverence. Then he stood aside, gravely
regarding Alice.

" I have kissed the King," he said.

Alice hesitated. Memory of her mother's stern
teaching was struggling within her with her love for the
Earl, and her own sudden liking for this strange father.
John's hands had dropped from his face, at his brother's
words, and he sat watching his daughter, a sudden long
ing in his heart. Then, while he looked, she slowly
moved forward, until she could raise her delicate little
lips to his. With fierce eagerness John caught her up
into his arms, bending his dark head over hers, so that

238 2Jncanoni?eD

none might see his face. Then, still holding her, he
rose, and, without a word, walked quickly from the
room.

A deep breath passed through the little place after
the King's departure. Hubert de Burgh sat gazing
thoughtfully into space, and Salisbury passed one hand
lightly over his eyes.

" Meseemeth the Queen's teaching was a cruel thing,"
murmured De Laci, at last; and, though there was no
answer, the very atmosphere assented to his words.

Isabella of Angouleme -was not a favorite in her
adopted country; and, to tell the truth, she deserved
but little love from her subjects. During the first years
of her life with the King, before their quarrels began,
her imperial beauty had carried everything before it.
But the possession of power, and much adulation, had
completed the ruin of a somewhat spoiled girl, until now
no one in England, save her own handful of sycophants
and flatterers, ever spoke her name with anything but
indifference or open sneers. Her husband scarcely saw
her, and she spent but little time with her family. The
royal children — Alice, the eldest, born in 1201, the two
boys, Henry and Richard, and the last-born, Eleanor,
some day to become Lady Simon de Montfort, now a
babe of two months — had spent their lives here at Win
chester Castle, seeing their parents only at long inter
vals, and then never together. They had been reared
wholly by servants (ill company indeed for the future
rulers of England), while their father struggled to hold
his kingdom for them, and their mother played her
frivolous part at various castles.

All this common history was in the minds of the
courtiers as they sat silently awaiting the return of the
King. He came at last, striding rapidly, with his head
up and his shoulders straight, and good cheer in his
face. He gave no hint of returning to the couch he
had left.

(BjrcommiwicateD ^tng 239

" De Neville ! The hunt ! Gentlemen, you shall
accompany me. Let horses be prepared, and our din
ner may wait. Thou, De Laci, get off that delicate
tunic, and don jerkin and hose, that will exhibit those
pretty limbs of thine. We will meet below, in the
courtyard, within the half-hour. Thou, Salisbury,
come with me."

Thus vigorously speaking, the King deigned to return
the obedient salute of his gentlemen. Then, drawing
Salisbury's hand under his arm, he passed into his bed
room, and the oaken door swung to.

The courtiers likewise left the small apartment, to
seek their own rooms and valets as hastily as might be.
Fitz-Herbert and De Laci went off together, down the
hall, indulging in a little whispered conversation which
it was well that the older men did not hear.

" The hunt — and the maid that is passing fair,"
murmured Roger.

" And in pursuit of the stag, cousin, what think you
of the chance of the King's losing his way? "

" He will be hungry, this time, as well as athirst."

" And dinners are hauled not out of wells."

This topic, curiously enough, seemed a prevalent
one. In the King's own bedroom the brother of the
King had chosen to introduce it.

" Pardon, John, but — may I speak? "

" Always, Will. That thou knowest."

" Thou wilt be angry, but — that tale of thine this
morn, concerning the hunt, and the maid that is fair,—
was it but a reproach to us that thou didst tell it? "

" Still doubtful, my lord? Well, listen. Thou shalt
be at my side hereafter, whenever I hunt near Win
chester. Dost remember William Rufus, my forbear?
I whisper to thee, Salisbury, that, since his day, hunts
have been unlucky to the Norman race."

No more said the King ; but the Earl could remem
ber, without the telling, that it was at a hunt in Poictou

240

that King John had first seen the woman who became
his wife.

So, locking arms together, in mutual love, the
brothers descended to the courtyard, where the horses
already were awaiting them.

CHAPTER XIV

FROM BRISTOL TO GLASTONBURY

AMONG human kind there are to be found three
distinct types of faces. The first kind, the rarest,
and the one which will bear out a life-study and
be worth the effort at the end, is that which shows the
soul within the body to have suffered and to have under
stood, however gropingly, its suffering. The second, not
the commonest, and the most beautiful of the three, is that
which might have suffered rarely well, but has, in some
way, missed its opportunity. The third class, least
interesting, most often seen, and really most wonderful
of all, is that array of set features which tells, as plainly
as things may, that it hides a creature which has perhaps
passed through climaxes and crises holding a possible
thousand years of soul-life in the balance, — and the
creature has remained unmoved, uncomprehending,
through all.

In three rooms of the west wing of the Castle of
Bristol lay sheltered from the outer world rare specimens
of these facial types; and all were feminine. In a
woman, and especially one of so many hundred years
ago, when women were something less than they are
to-day, there was but one key which should unlock her
nature, and free that nature's expression - — the key of
Love. And as only some men are capable of under
standing the highest suffering, so only some women are
capable of that earth-love which will dare hell, and, of
a certainty, win heaven. Mary of Longlands and
Eleanor of Brittany were alike capable of this, one not

16

242

more so than the other. But, within one of them, the
flames were already blazing high, with the other the fire
was scarce alight. Mary o' Longlands would have
sacrificed her soul for Anthony Fitz-Hubert. Eleanor
of Brittany eventually renounced a crown and took up
the cross for the love of Louis de la Bordelaye, a simple
gentleman of Poictou. For the third type — there were
Clothilde and Marie. They, also, loved mon Sieur de la
Bordelaye, because madam did. And a deal of relief
did the good little souls gain from the monotony of
their lives out of the occasional glimpses which they
obtained of his fine face. An instant's view of him
crossing the second courtyard from the keep to the
orchard, where he took his exercise, furnished conver
sation for a week to these enthusiastic demoiselles.
Rarely did they obtain a nearer view, for the Princess
took excellent care that they should not see too much
of the man over whom, as yet, she only dreamed.

Mary, poor Mary, perceived everything that went on
about her, and was heart-sick. She knew more, perhaps,
of Eleanor's state of mind than the Princess herself; for
Mary's eyes had been opened to many things of late,
and her own starvation had so sharpened her percep
tions and sensibilities that she would scarcely have been
recognized for the same girl who had, so long, long ago,
gone to Anthony at St. Michael's on the Tower and
begged him to confess her. Here, in Bristol Castle,
she was far more unhappy than in her freedom at her
father's farm. Yet now that she stood at the very
knot of the tangle of matters that so involved her happi
ness, she realized that she would have been wretched in
being forced to leave the vantage-point. That Anthony
did not care for her in any way she was perfectly aware.
It could not be otherwise, as she saw only too well.
But, however deep his feeling might be for the Princess,
she knew his honor and his sensitiveness far too per
fectly to doubt his power of self-restraint. She knew

ftom OBrtetol to d&iastonbut:? 243

that never, by word or look, would he betray one iota
of his feeling to any one ; least of all to Eleanor herself.
And she believed also in her own powers of conceal
ment, sure that the monk need never guess all 'the
bitterness that life held for her.

As for the triviality of her two companions, their
thoughts and their pleasures, what she saw of them
annoyed Mary, oftentimes ; but she was forced to endure
but little, on the whole. It was difficult enough for her
to hold the simplest conversation with them, though she
herself struggled hard with the French language, and
the sisters, at the command of their mistress, tried in
their foolish way to fix a few phrases of the Saxon tongue
in their unstable memories. Eleanor was wonderfully
kind to the English peasant girl, of whom she had grown
strangely fond, during the long, dreary winter. And
personally Mary dearly loved the sad-eyed, beautiful,
girlish woman, whose lot was cast in such grim abodes.
That Eleanor did not comprehend Anthony was the
one unforgivable thing about her. But if Eleanor had
understood, and so far forgotten the monk's place and
her own dignity as to return anything of his feeling, —
then Mary would have found it difficult indeed to have
lived.

And out of what little things was all this intricate
inner life composed ! It was the life of a prison, where
a crumb is a loaf, and a glance is a book. Here was a
courteous greeting from the Count de la Marche to the
Princess, and in return a stately acknowledgment from
her Highness ; now came a whisper into Eleanor's ear
from old John, the porter ; a blush from the Princess,
and an answer was returned ; then there was sound of a
lute in the courtyard of the keep, and the singing, in a
rich baritone voice, of some ditty that Eleanor ofttimes
hummed at her work. At Anthony's regular visits there
was even less to go upon, but one heart, at least, was
readier to transmute his evidence than the other, a hun-

244 2Jncanoni?et»

dred times over. Eleanor now no longer sent for the
monk. It was understood that he was to spend one day
in each month at the castle, and he never failed to come.
That Eleanor always liked his visits, and looked forward
to them, Mary knew. That Anthony was regarded as
an elderly counsellor and friend, Mary guessed ; but that
Eleanor had, in her very first confessional, told Anthony
all that there was to tell of her love, and so put him
forever out of danger of himself, she never dreamed.
The peasant girl did not share the common notion that
a man is one thing, and a monk, generally, another.
She knew very well that no amount of prayers and
penances can ever materially change human nature;
which fact did Mary's comprehension good credit. For
Anthony's early life she cared nothing. The present
was super-vivid to her. A certain light in his face, the
musical gentleness of his voice, when he spoke to
Eleanor, the eagerness with which he listened to her
slightest remark, the look with which he bade her fare
well for another thirty days, — these were all ; but for
Mary they were everything.

The long winter dragged away. The King's Orchard,
luxuriantly lovely during the summer and autumn, was,
in the rainy season, but a great pool of mud. If the
prisoners wished to go out at all, they took their exercise
in the stone-paved courtyards. The Frenchwomen wept
with the skies, and grew pallid and listless through the
gloomy days and endless nights. In the spring the Prin
cess fell ill, not violently, but with a lingering fever, which
at times flushed her thin face into flaming scarlet, and
left it again white as the sky full of unfallen snow. Mary's
care was unceasing and tender. Anthony came as ever,
though he saw her but once in three months, and only
Philip at Glastonbury guessed how he lived upon his
heart during this time. While in the keep at Bristol, the
Sieur de la Bordelaye had become so unendurably rest
less and ill-tempered that the Count de la Marche had

fjrom osn'jstol to d&lagtottburi? 245

him copiously bled and blistered by a member of the
guard, who had practised both physic and French.

Like a breath from God came the spring of that
second year of the Interdict. Eleanor grew brighter
at the unfolding of each new leaf, and with the first
rose, sent her in silent beauty, by a well-guessed hand,
she arose from her couch, and descended, for the first
time in many weeks, to the little chapel, to pray.
When the King's Orchard, bright with sunny color,
murmurous with the ripple of the river which bounded
it, velvet-swarded, perfumed with the blossoms of its
famous trees, first saw her again, there was the flush of
the rose in her cheeks, the sparkle of dew in her eyes,
and her slender figure was clothed in garments of
apple-green. The guard at the wicket-gate smiled with
pleasure when he beheld her, and doffed his helmet as
she passed him. Mary followed, bearing the coif and
cloak which she had refused to don. As the maid reached
the gate the soldier boldly whispered to her : -

" Sooth, mistress, methinks 't were better that you
kept me company outside, for once. Her Grace '11 not
be lonely in the garden, and there be times when three
are full too many."

Mary, for once unconscious and unsuspicious, looked
at the man haughtily, and entered into the garden.
There she perceived that the guard had spoken only
from a kind of rough sentiment, for, in very truth, she
was not needed in the orchard.

Near the gate, motionless upon the turf under the
blossom-laden branches of an apple-tree, was the
Princess. Her back was toward her maid, but Mary
guessed the look upon her face. Opposite to her,
eager, hesitating, with the sunlight playing over his
features, the light of love dimming his fine eyes, stood
Louis de la Bordelaye. A lute lay upon the grass at
his feet, and his hands were clenched tightly. Before
the fixity of his gaze Eleanor's head drooped.

246 <3ncanoni?ei>

Slowly she began moving toward him, as the summer
dreams imperceptibly into the place that spring has
held. Her moving seemed neither conscious nor im
pulsive ; it was law. Mary stood spellbound, watching.
The guard from his post could see nothing. Now she
was beside him, and had stopped. At once he fell
upon his knee, pressing one of her slight hands to his
lips. Eleanor, no princess, but queen of a good man's
heart, raised him gently. One more long look, and he
was leaving her, leaving her to the perfume of the
garden, and the music of the rippling stream, and the
lute that lay forgotten at her feet.

He did well to go. There are some moments which
it is beyond human .possibility to prolong. Eleanor
knew this, and so did her lover. The afternoon that
followed was only a dream of memory to them both.
And the Princess never guessed that beside her, in her
ecstasy, was one whose heart was bleeding in sorrow
for a useless cause.

How was it, all this time, with Anthony, in his prison,
twenty miles away? Totally unconscious of that dis
tinctly enacted climax, he was just now not unhappy in
his way. For spring was even at Glastonbury, and no
monk could be forbidden to love the green things, and
the long, mild days, and the new bird-songs that had
come. The sacred thorn-tree wore a second coat of
white. The little river ran merrily among the orchards
of Somerset ; and many a robin violated the asceticism
of the monastery, and built a nest for his wife in the
gnarled branches of the old elms within the abbey
walls.

Spring had entered into the prayer-worn heart of
every monk. Anthony's face and manner grew brighter.
Some of his melancholy left him, and his usual silence
was frequently broken. Twice had he condescended
to argue a disputed point in Nominalism with David
Franklin, a bigoted scholastic, and twice he smiled to

•from I3ri$tol to d&lagtonfcut^ 247

himself in honest victory of logic over his enraged
opponent, while the other brethren looked on. No
one spoke to him of his little triumphs, for he was
in disfavor among the monks; but long since had
Anthony ceased to feel the slights of unpopularity.
He went his own lonely way, cherishing great ambitions
within his breast, glad in the knowledge that out of the
deep void of past years Time had brought him less
heart-stirring violence of realization. Still he felt the
ruin of his life, but in a calmer way. Out of the change
to Glastonbury, which was not haunted by memories of
his father, nor peopled with the monks who knew his
earlier, pitiful rebellion against fate, a kind of self-reliant
quietude had come to him. Within himself he felt
that there was a great strength, a strength which might
some day be powerful enough to resist the fiats of the
Benedictine order of England. Secretly he was already
opposing their laws in his teachings at the Falcon Inn,
at Bristol.

Much had been evolved from that first impromptu
meeting. It was now as regular a monthly gathering
to those who came to listen to Anthony's lessons as, be
fore the Interdict, mass and the confessional had been.
Of late years, through much study and deep meditation,
the monk had become no mean philosopher. He was
now familiar with as many branches of olden-time pagan-
istic theology as were open to the scholastic of that
day. It was just at the time that Aristotelianism made
its primal entrance into Europe through the portals of
the East; long before the era of common heresy.
Still, the synod at Paris was beginning to find work cut
out for it in the determining of uncatholic creeds, and
their condemnation. Anthony possessed two manu
scripts (written by men who had dared to disclose
injustice, and whose works, wherever found, were, in
the summer of that very year, 1209, condemned to be
publicly burned as pernicious) that he prized more

248 2Jncanoni?cD

highly than any volume in the library of the abbey.
They were the books of Almarich of Bena, a Neo-
platonist, and David of Dinant, an advanced scholastic ;
and their owner took excellent care that they should
never fall into the hands of one of his fellow-monks.
From these writings, and with the addition of other
works and his own thoughts, the solitary monk had
brought to life a creed of his own. It was not a bad
system, his, nor was it complex. At least his pupils
could find no flaw in it, or in his logic. It was heathen
ish, however. His major premise was : " God and
matter were. God and matter are. God shall be."
Gnosticism and dogma were alike eschewed. Along
certain paths he went not very far. But perhaps the
great point of all his expositions was the gradual,
perfect, complete demolition of the bombastic proposi
tions, the impossible laws, and the altisonant assertions
of the Roman Catholic theology. Blind faith was abol
ished ; so also, occasionally, was reason, for the sake of
comfort ; for the intellects of children are small. And
eagerly, gladly, lovingly did the good people grasp
what their master held out to them so freely. What
they took away, oftentimes they brought back again
to the meeting, with the outward as well as inward
assertion that it was good.

Among a certain set of Bristol burghers, the little
room in the hostel was always connected with the even
ing of the thirtieth day in each month. Now, at each
assembly, every seat was filled ; and, after the first three
months, a new face was a rarity. This was a natural
thing. Care in the selection of new-comers was neces
sary ; for, though the word danger was never spoken at
these meetings, or in regard to them, it was neverthe
less a silently recognized fact that a hint from one out
of sympathy with new doctrines, to a member of the
Catholic body, would portend direful things. Heresy
was regarded with unspeakable horror, and the word

from 'Bristol to d&lagtonliuri? 249

itself was tabooed from common parlance. Not one of
the little body dared deny to himself that the teach
ings of Anthony were heretical, and yet, month after
month, each returned to the Falcon Inn. They were
not slow, either, to perceive the result of this practice.
Their hearts were lighter than those of their neighbors,
and the gloom of the Interdict, with the fears that it
brought, had left their lives.

Sentimental necessity though it be, it is none the less
truth that one of the strongest needs of man's existence
is that of a faith. No one, looking over history, need
ask for proof of this. The hunger for something to cling
to, above life, above toil, is innate in every human breast.
To comprehend the moral effect of an interdict upon a
nation, this fact must be thoroughly understood ; take
away a man's God, and you have in nine cases out
of ten taken away also the highest part of his nature.
And a man whose God can be taken away from him is
helpless indeed. Anthony, having restored to a certain
number of his fellows their staff of existence, had won
from them such dog-like devotion and confidence that
he had become fearless in their presence. Though
he continued to appear before them in the dress that
Hubert de Burgh had given him, he was pretty well
aware that they, knew his vocation in life. No other
proof of their love did he need than the fact that they
accepted him, knowing this. All their old-time " blind
faith " they bestowed upon him, since their new religion
did not require it.

To Anthony, the master, this sway over a few, this
open denunciation of those sickening doctrines of prayer,
and fasting, and confession to human gods, was as meat
and wine, as home and friendship, hope and youth,
returned to him again. He had now a place in the
world, a reality of existence ; he was a necessity to a
few, a few of understanding. Eleanor of Brittany was
not to him what these people were. She was his sweet-

250

est pain ; here was his heart's peace. He possessed two
things, now, that were his alone. He had a life to live ;
a life that was livable, through hope, energy, and ambi
tion. Out of the depths had he risen. God and his
angels had pitied him. He was content.

CHAPTER XV

CHRISTMAS AT WINDSOR

IT was truly astounding how that summer of 1210
dragged out its length at Bristol Castle. Such a
volume of heart-history as the three acres within the
walls held should have been productive of almost any
action within a space of six months. In reality, nothing
at all had happened. Prisoners are beings who live
according to the laws of others, and those others enter
into no consideration of the mass of minute details which
can make or unmake the happiness of the individual.
Thus my Lord de Burgh, the most sought after and
sought for gentleman in the realm, thought nothing
of certain possibilities when, one rainy day at Dunster,
he drew up a revised code of rules which the Captain
of the Guard at Bristol was to use in regard to his
prisoners. The rules were, as De Burgh thought, most
considerate and courteous. He decreed the King's
Orchard to be at the service of the Princess Eleanor
and her ladies from six until eleven in the morning (for,
in those days, six o'clock was a late hour to be just out
of bed) ; and that the same garden should be open to
the Count de la Marche and his companions from two
in the afternoon until sunset; all the prisoners being,
at other periods, safe under lock and key. Then Hubert,
looking disconsolately out of the window at the rain,
and having nothing better to do, fingered his light and
unofficial-looking document, and saw fit to add to it a
clause, saying that the two parties should hold no hint
of communication with each other, by word, writ, look,

252

or deed. And in decreeing this thing De Burgh had
not an idea that some Poictevin soldiers in the keep,
and a daughter of the proudest reigning family in
Europe, in the castle, would have a single thought in
common with each other. Had my lord known the
real feeling between King John's captives and his niece,
it would have depended very much upon my lord's
dinner, and the prospect of the weather's clearing,
whether or no he would strike out those sorry lines.

And thus it happened that the memory of that one
swift love-passage between Louis de la Bordelaye and
Eleanor, in the King's Orchard, had to last them both
throughout the summer as mental food for their feeling
toward each other. And that this feeling throve, and
waxed stronger upon sustenance so light, was the result
of its depth, and their great loneliness. And who would
blame mon Sieur if he sometimes bitterly cursed the
quick impulse of delicacy in leaving her alone in that
garden at the instant of their first coming together?
And would many women have deemed the Princess
unnatural when she would fancy, in her solitary hours,
that he cared not much for her, on account of that very
action which, at the time, she had been grateful for?

It was not until late autumn had made the little garden
too dreary to be resorted to, that old John Norman
took pity upon the desolate pair, and managed, now
and again, to convey a note from keep to castle, and
even, on one occasion, took upon himself the responsi
bility of a meeting between them ; which matter, how
ever, was so difficult to arrange and so dangerous in
its carrying out that it was hardly to be repeated. So
the fall months dragged on, and snow and winter fell
together.

At Glastonbury, life was a void, a great blank of
prayers and scanty meals, and broken sleep. Philip
mourned and wrote. Anthony lived during two days
of every month, and dreamed through the rest of the

at minbgov 253

time. The same old quarrels and the same old jests,
with an occasional week's abandonment of every rule
and law, were enacted there. Harold was still the head
of the establishment, for no abbot dared the monks elect,
since Jocelyn of Bath was in England again.

So much for castle and monastery; but what of
interdicted Britain and her excommunicated King? The
great masses of people now groaned and now blas
phemed against the damning laws. Unused churches
were profanely piled with coffins containing the uncon-
secrated dead, with the result that many communities
were stricken with disease and plague. Marriages,
sacred in the eye of the law, there could be none ; but
unhallowed marriages were many; and these, in all
bitterness, were universally accepted. There had also
been a decided diminution in the clerical element of
the island's population in the last two years. King
John had busily shipped boat after boat load of growl
ing popemen from the shores of his realm into countries
of Europe where their tongues, now so used to the
exercise, continued to wag over the matter of the dis
grace and depravity of Lackland. On a far more annoy
ing and treasonable scale this same thing was being
done in France by five commendable English bishops
and the Archbishop of Canterbury elect, Stephen
Langton. Matters of loyalty and patriotism were
simple things to put aside, in the face of such pleasures
and honors as the King of the French heaped royally
upon them. His Holiness also should be included in
this religious galaxy. He was a sedentary man, and
never given to fierceness in speech, or in immediate
action. He remained much in the papal chair, and
frequently, while there, he dozed. But when he awoke,
as the Mohammedan to his Mecca, so did Innocent turn
his eyes in the direction of England ; for it was through
that gateway that he expected to enter heaven, the
heaven of a pope. Looking there, he smiled, as he had

254

done before the Interdict. Then once more he grew
thoughtful. Deep thought on the part of the Pope
had preceded the excommunication of John, a year
before. This time, after that long revery, his eyes
turned, by chance, in the direction of France. But
now his Holiness sighed. The time was not yet.

In the midst of all the treason, and intrigue, and
smiling dishonesty, King John was a refreshing thought.
The summer of 1210 he spent in Ireland, bent on
making friends with that good-natured people, whom
he had not been among since the year when he, a boy
of ten, was vested with the dignity of Lord Regent of
"Our Dependency of Ireland." In those days the
people had not loved him overmuch. He had never
sought their affection then, because at that time he loved
better to play at quoits or cup-and-ball than to hold
councils and make progresses of state ; unnatural though
it be in any sovereign ever to have been a child. But
now his popularity was as sudden and as signal as it
was curious, for so Catholic a country. To be sure,
the government that he established there was more just
and more kindly than any that these people had ever
known before. But was that any excuse for those
rough creatures to have gathered round him, monster
as he was, at his departure from their shores, with laugh
ter and with tears, and many extravagant expressions
of love and everlasting loyalty? Their priests saw no
extenuating circumstances for such an act, and many
a man afterwards did penance for his new-sprung faith
in the faithless.

John landed in England upon a September day.
Preparations had been made to give him a royal wel
coming reception when he arrived, for royalty is royalty,
at least, and the King had been away for four months.
John was glad to see his own people once again ; but
there was a face which had haunted his memory for
many a day, now, and that face he had looked to see

at auinDgor 255

waiting for him just upon the shore. Why he had
hoped for it, he could not himself have told; and an
unreasonable hope in a thing is most unwise to indulge.
One question he asked about it, and his answer was
immediate. Queen Isabella was at Hurstmonceaux.
As all men know, Hurstmonceaux is not on the western
coast of England. So the King, out of unpardonable
caprice, though some might call it a bitter grief, waived
every festivity that had been made ready for him, and
journeyed away like a common courier, across the
country; not to his Queen, for whom he yearned so
unaccountably, but back to gloomy Windsor, which
once had known her so well. Here he shut himself
up, away from the world, with his melancholy and a
dozen friends.

As usual, during Christmas week, high festivities had
been planned to take place at the royal abode. Though
not a priest nor a monk was to be found about the
castle, four bishops, who had flung holiness to the
winds, it would appear, numbered themselves among
the goodly company of loyal men who were now gath
ering about their liege. These four were Henry of
Dublin, the two De Grays, John and Walter, bishops
of Norwich and Worcester, and Peter de Rupibus, who
arrived in December, in the train of the Queen, from
Winchester.

After much pleading and argument Isabella had been
persuaded by De Burgh, De Rupibus, and Geoffrey,
to join the King for Christmas week. It was the first
time that she had seen him in eleven months. John
was told that she came of her own will, and he gave her
the welcome of a young lover, whom she had at last
accepted. To her credit be it said, she had the grace
not to undeceive him as to her preferences.

Christmas day of the year 1210 dawned over Wind
sor frosty and gray. At five in the morning the gentle
men of the bedchamber were admitted to the King.

256

The Queen and her suite had been lodged in another
wing of the castle. John was long over his toilet. He
had determined that no gloom of the heart should
creep into this single day for him. To the astonish
ment of the attendants, their lord whistled like a
plough-boy while they curled and perfumed his black
locks, and trimmed his short gray beard. While they
vested him with his hose and tunic, which, in truth,
were simple enough for a festival morning, he hummed
the tune of a morris-dance. At six he was fully dressed.
Ere he left his apartment a page entered his room to
bear him morning greetings from his Queen. These he
returned, with light-hearted formality, and went forth
into his anteroom with appetite primed for the break
ing of a very short fast. There were no prayers, no
penances, no confessions to be made before he should be
at his own liberty. His oratory was closed. In some
ways excommunication is a thing not inconvenient,
when, on a wintry day, you are eager to be out at dawn
to see the hoar-frost glisten with the first shafts of the sun.

In the anteroom stood De Burgh. He greeted his
master with respectful wishes, and smiles that were
something of an effort. His face was gray and drawn
from sleeplessness.

" Hey now, Hubert ! " quoth the King. " Thou 'rt
scarce so cheerful as a love-sick swain. Hast a rheum,
or the swelling of a joint, from overmuch cheer? "

"Would that it were either of those, sire; but 'tis
naught so light. I have had news which should keep
us both in the council-chamber till evening. The
message came after you slept last night."

The King stopped in their walk through the hall, and
stood silent, nervously fingering his dagger-hilt. The
light had all gone from his face, and his eyes looked
far away into space. Finally he spoke, and his voice
had in it a ring which, long, long years after, became
habitual to Charles Stuart in his last days.

at aBintJgot 257

"Answer me this only question, my lord. Comes
thy word from Rome, from France, or from England ? "

" 'T is from England, my Lord King."

" Then by the Heaven above me, it shall wait ! "
cried John. " They would keep me in mine harness
like an ox, throughout my life, 'twould seem ; and I tell
thee that for once, beast as I am, I will give no heed
to the goad, but rest a moment ere we go on again.
Why, man ! " he cried out, and his mirth was not very
apparent in his voice, " there is to be tilting in the lists
this morning, and the boar-hunt this afternoon, and the
great feast this evening ! And thou wouldst drag me
from it all to council? Nay, Hubert, this one day
shall be ours. Then, on the morrow, they shall have
us again. Dost hear? Not another word o' the subject
to any soul to-day ! "

Despite his words, however, the King's face was not
bright, and his manner became more preoccupied than
De Burgh's as they moved on again. Arm in arm they
entered the banquet-room, wherein all the masculine
members of the court awaited them. The Queen and
her ladies were not expected to appear before the
beginning of the tournament, of which the first encoun
ter was to take place at eight o'clock, — a most fashion
ably late hour. The royal breakfast passed off with
much noise and jollity. None seemed to notice that
the jests of the King and his laughter alike were
forced. Poor John ! His simile of the ox and the
king had not been a happy one. Despite his deter
mination not to be driven, the goad had touched him
on a spot where no beast could have been reached.
He had repudiated apparent care, but he could not
drive the weariness from his heart. De Burgh watched
his master covertly, and, as he caught the look in his
eyes, regretted that he had done his duty, and told
what he dared not keep to himself.

The meal over, all those knights who had entered

17

their names for jousting, repaired to the lists. At each
end of the long, smooth course, situated at the bottom
of the great hill, rose long wooden structures, hastily
put together, that were to shelter the horses and serve
for the retirement of those who should be hurt or
unhorsed in a tilt. On the east and west sides of the
square were tiers of wooden seats. Just beyond the
smaller of these stood a little building, better constructed
than the larger sheds, and, as a great luxury, containing
a fire. This was the place where the King and his
brother Salisbury were to dress for their encounter,
which was to be the last trial of the morning.

By half-past seven the two large sheds were thronged
with knights, horses, and their attendants. By eight
the spectators' seats were nearly filled ; one side by
common folk, from Windsor town and the country-side,
the other by ladies, bishops, and those gentlemen of
the court who were not going to take part in the
sports. The royal seats and a few of those immediately
about them alone remained empty. At ten minutes
after the hour a gayly dressed group could be seen
leaving the castle from the west side, and descending
the terraces toward the forest's edge. There was a
great flourish of trumpets and bugles, an instant's
silence, then a cheer of greeting from five hundred
throats, as the King and Queen of England, hand in
hand, with Salisbury close beside them, surrounded by
De Rupibus* De Burgh, and two or three dozen ladies
and gentlemen-in-waiting, entered the lists, passed about
them, and finally, mounting to their places, signalled
the tourney into life.

It was a truly royal entertainment in this much, that
never had there been richer purses, jewels, and chaplets
to be competed for, and that the hand that would
bestow these things upon the victors was that belonging
to the most beautiful Queen, and, some said, the most
beautiful woman in all Europe.

at JKtlin&got; 259

When, at length, every mel^e had been fought, every
tilt run, and every victor rewarded, save the very last,
interest began to run high upon the question as to
whether the wife of one of the contestants for this
ending scene, and the sister of the other one, would
still remain the Queen of love and beauty in whose
honor they were supposed to fight. Instances had
been known where kings had fought for some lowlier
favorite, and it was not at all impossible that John
would choose again. But no other name was whispered
in rivalry of Isabella's, and there was no move near the
royal seat when the brothers retired to prepare for their
encounter. Betting was much in fashion in that age,
even ladies sometimes staking creditable sums upon a
good horse or a better knight; and the amounts put
up on the last tilt of the day were very large. The
odds were rather in favor of Salisbury. The Earl,
though somewhat slight to oppose a heavily wielded
weapon, was in excellent practice, having taken part
in numerous jousts through the winter, in which he had
acquitted himself with unusual success. John, on the
contrary, though a famous lance in his youth, had now
not entered a list for more than seven years, in fact
since the mad days that he had spent with Isabella at
Rouen, after their marriage. This, together with the
fact that Salisbury was near enough his own rank, and
a favorite great enough to dare defeat him in open
struggle, made it more than probable that the King
would not be a victor to-day.

Despite the weariness of the trumpeters, they made
a brave noise with their instruments, as two magnifi
cently caparisoned horses were led down the lists to
the door of the royal dressing-room. From out of the
little square house came two knights, stiff with armor,
but with visors raised. John's tall and burly figure
was, at any distance, easily to be distinguished from
the slight and graceful one of his brother. Despite

260

the weight of the iron and silver on him, the King
mounted his steed without assistance from the Master
of the Horse ; while Salisbury, less powerful, was lifted
bodily into the saddle. Thereupon, amid loud demon
strations from the people, the friendly adversaries rode
slowly down the course, side by side, stopping at length
below and in front of their royal lady. Isabella re
sponded graciously, if unsmilingly, to their salute; after
which the horsemen wheeled elaborately, greeted each
other, and finally galloped to opposite ends of the lists,
where attendants awaited them with lances.

The day was bitterly cold and cheerless. The vast
sky was uniformly gray, and out of it, once and again,
fluttered a snow-flake, small, and frozen into powder.
The riding-course was bordered upon the south and
west with the black, leafless trees that began the great
forest. To the north rose the hill, with its stony crown,
which towered far aloft into the colorless air. It was
wonderful how such a throng of people could remain
for so many hours in that bitter atmosphere, gaily
and thinly clad, totally forgetful of themselves in their
eagerness over the pleasure of the day.

These thoughts passed through the mind of the
King, as he sat motionless upon his horse, awaiting
the signal for the start. He was in no wise concerned
over the outcome of the approaching encounter. He
scarcely remembered how long it was since he had been
in this position. The days at Rouen, as his memory
glided back to them, seemed to have been but yes
terday. In accordance with this recollection his eyes
travelled to the spot where sat his Queen. It was
strange that that moment found her also looking
thoughtfully toward him. At such a distance, and,
moreover, since his visor was closed, she could see
nothing of his face ; but he knew that her eyes were
on him, and his heart throbbed a little.

Now, at last, the trumpet had sounded. Without

at JGBfnDsfot 261

knowing what he did, King John found himself flying
down the list, lance couched, reins on saddle-bow,
toward that other who was coming straight upon him
from the opposite end. Then the royal charger, not
yet primed for battle, swerved. In an instant the first
tilt was run. They had passed without touching. Once
again they stood motionless, opposite each other, but
this time at different ends of the lists. Again the signal,
and again the clanking run of the armored steeds. This
course was watched with more indifference, for all the
audience knew the perfect courtesy of the Earl. Salis
bury's horse shied gently, at the right instant. They
passed. Underneath his armor John laughed. Now,
however, there was a pause. The King despatched a
page to his brother, just before the crucial tilt: for
three was the legitimate number of runs to be made,
and if this last proved as gentle as the two former, a
chaplet of bay-leaves would have to be destroyed, and
a hundred pounds would hang in a stupidly even
balance.

The message sent down ,to the Earl, and which was
afterwards noised approvingly about among the crowd,
was this: "The King commands my Lord of Salisbury
to forget, for a quarter of an hour, that he has either
a liege or a brother." And by William's subsequent
straightening in the saddle, and the gathering up of the
bridle-reins, it might have been surmised that the Earl
had cast a brother's kindness and a courtier's fear from
his mind, according to the suggestion of his opponent.

Shrilly the trumpets blared. There was a thunder
of iron-shod hoofs and a great din of armor, the
jangling and clattering of shield and gauntlet, cuisse
and steed's caparisons. Then two great warhorses
were on their haunches, head to head, in the centre
of the lists; and the spectators had risen as a man.
Now came a second sharp thrust of the lances. One
of the animals screamed, pitifully; and the next

262

instant a horse and his rider lay together on the
ground. The victor, still holding in his hand the
stump of a lance, backed away his steed, stood still
for one moment, to regain his equilibrium, and then
leaped out of his saddle and, in another instant, was
kneeling beside his brother.

When the fallen man was lifted from beneath his
struggling horse, there came a shriek of delight from
the crowd; but that shriek changed to a wild cheer
when the victor gently removed the suffocating helmet
from the other's head, and the white face and tangled
yellow hair and beard of Salisbury were revealed.
There was a respectful hush, however, as William, who
had knelt to kiss the hand of his conqueror, was raised,
in kindly fashion and, the black visor of the King
being lifted, kissed royally upon the brow.

A throng of grooms from the sheds led away the
unhurt horse, and removed the trappings of the other,
which lay in its death-agony. Then all eyes followed
the majestic figure of John, as he walked slowly toward
the seat of his lady, Queen of England and of the
tournament alike. As her lord approached, Isabella
rose to. her feet, removed his helmet with her own
hands, and they say that the King trembled when she
placed the unadorned crown of bay-leaves upon his
disordered black hair.

Altogether it had been a most satisfactory joust from
first to last. The crowd left their seats leisurely, talk
ing among themselves over each encounter that had
taken place during the morning, and proceeding, at
length, up the hill to the castle, where the noon meal,
delayed long beyond its usual hour, was about to be
served. Ordinarily this repast was a heavy one, and
its consummation took some time; but to-day it was
eaten hurriedly, since all were eager for the afternoon's
hunt, and it was also known that the great Christ
mas feast was to take place when the day was done,

at flUin&gor 263

and the whole night should be before them for eating
and drinking. Ladies as well as gentlemen were pres
ent at this meal. King and Queen sat side by side
upon a dais, and were, ostensibly, most courteous to
each other. At the great table conversation ran upon
hunting and hunting matters ; and in the talk many a
fair dame kept pace with the lords in knowledge of the
intricacies and etiquette of the sport. For in those
days it was rather the fashion for women to ride to
hounds, though in immediately succeeding centuries
the custom was regarded as in bad taste.

Despite his excitement and triumph of the morning,
the King was preoccupied at noon ; and his unaccount
able silence through the meal was much commented on.
He ate unusually little, and his head drooped continu
ally; while every now and then he shot a troubled
glance at De Burgh, who had taken the head of the
first great table, and sat with his back to the King.
The Earl of Salisbury and the bishops were at the
royal table, the Earl having been bandaged up enough
to permit him to take his place at the meal, though a
hunt was out of the question for him. Both he and
the Queen wondered at John's abrupt closing of the
dinner. With the rising of the King, eating, both above
and below the salt, must instantly stop; and it must
be confessed that unsatisfied hunger was prevalent, that
afternoon, among the inmates of Windsor.

Just before John stood, a hurriedly whispered collo
quy had been held among the four bishops at the royal
table. De Rupibus seemed to be the questioner, and
the faces of his colleagues were extremely dubious, as,
leaning over, he ventured to address the King, just as
that monarch was on the point of leaving the hall. At
the old councillor's question the King's face grew dark.
Nevertheless he must have assented to the request, for,
taking three steps from the table, he turned his back
toward all in the room, and stood there, motionless,

264 <3ncanom?e&

with his arms folded and his shoulders bent so that it
was nearly impossible to see his head at all. The
company wondered, and stopped eating. Peter de
Rupibus raised toward them one thin white hand, and
began to speak a Latin benediction, that was length
ened out into a prayer. For the first time that day
the reason for all this festivity and good cheer was
spoken of; and when the name of Christ fell from the
reverend man's lips, and while each man and woman
made the sign of the cross, every eye was raised to the
bent figure of the excommunicated one, upon whose
ears the name of God was not supposed to fall. At
the sense of this publicly exposed degradation John's
face flushed red, and the moment that the grace had
ended he turned swiftly, and cried out in a brusque
voice : —

" Hugo de Neville, thou and the Master of the
Hounds get you gone to prepare the meet. Gentlemen,
the horses will await you on the last eastern terrace.
There will I join you presently. De Burgh ! — a word
with you ! "

So saying the King strode with grim haughtiness from
the room, with Hubert at his side. The two were fol
lowed by the half-fearful, half-pitying glances from all
the court ; for these people could feel more than they
could understand. So ended the single tribute to God
for his gift to the world, that was spoken in England
that day. For was not Innocent of Rome displeased
with the English King's opinion regarding a certain
French priest? And in the year 1210 who was God in
comparison to Innocent of Rome?

De Burgh accompanied the King up to John's own
bedroom, where lay his hunting-suit, gauntlets and
weapons. It was not till they stood within this cham
ber, out of the hearing of all listeners, that the silence
was broken.

" What was the ill news, to-day?" asked the King,

at fKlinDgor 265

finally, with a kind of jerkiness, as if driven to the
question.

De Burgh, who knew the uncomfortably acute con
science of his master, which generally forced him back
to the goad in this same fashion, had expected the de
mand ; and he answered with the quick, determinative
fearlessness that had won him the favoritism of a high-
tempered King, accustomed to be surrounded with
sycophants and cowardly flatterers, who would sooner
have died than trouble John's mind on a festal day.
" At three points in the realm, to-day, at Saint Albans,
Salisbury, and Nottingham, treasonable assemblies are
being held by such barons and clergy as are in direct
communication with Langton and his confederate
bishops. The names of the ringleaders of these coun
cils are in my possession. It would seem to me that
these things portend more than might immediately
appear. There is strong possibility that the Pope
may desire civil war in England, in order that, sooner
or later, France may put its hand upon our weakened
forces. There is always this to be thought upon, my
Lord King."

The King was silent for a moment. Then he asked
slowly: " Those at the abbey — Saint Alban's — would
they remain there overnight, think you? "

" Probably. Methinks there will still be time to
reach them."

" In one hour, then, I join you in the council-cham
ber. I will ride as if to the hunt, make a detour, and
return here. Thou must have a band of soldiers ready
for quick riding. Wilt lead them thyself, Hubert? "

"If you command, my liege."

" I command not. I but request it of you."

" Tis the same."

" Thank thee, Hubert. Now the councillors must
some of them be acquainted with the matter. Thou
hadst best summon the Earl Marshal, William Warenne,

266 Oncanom?et)

De Fortibus, Fitz-Peter, Salisbury, Chester, Arundel,
Winton, and Ferrars. Methinks but few of them had
thought to accompany the hunt. We must talk upon
the thing which thou suspectest and which in very truth
seems not unlikely. Indeed this morning I was mad,
so to have disregarded thy wish."

De Burgh answered his master with a bow. He was
used to the King's manner of grasping situations, and
by long companionship had so trained himself to the
same way of thought, and method of action, that he
needed no further command as to what was to be done.
The man's impatience at thought of a festivity spoiled,
the ruler's weight of conscience in the knowledge that
an important matter was being neglected, the states
man's keen interest in an intricate and pressing
affair, — all these things had been anticipated by cour
tier, favorite, and councillor. The one thing that
Hubert had not foreseen was the bestowing of the
leadership of the fighting faction upon himself. This,
for multifarious reasons, was very distasteful to him ;
but he had been too long a public man to be unable
to accept bitter and sweet alike, with unchanged face
and not too much disturbance of feeling.

The King turned at length from his mirror, ready
equipped for the hunt in which he was to take so small
a part; and, without another word of business matters,
walked with De Burgh clear to the courtyard of the
castle, chatting upon a variety of light subjects, with
a wit and deftness that not one of his courtiers could
equal. He left Hubert smiling, and totally forgetful
of the prospect of the disagreeable journey and unpleas
ant mission which lay before him.

At the foot of Windsor hill, upon the strip of dead
grass that bordered the forest, John came upon a
busy scene. Here was a conglomerate and continually
moving company of men, women, horses, and dogs,
whose laughter, barking, and neighing rose shrilly upon

at 2Hint)j3ot; 267

the frosty air. An occasional trumpet blared, for all
were becoming impatient for the unleashing of the
hounds ; and the appearance of the King caused great
satisfaction. Order issued rapidly from the confusion ;
there was a general mounting of horses, and the usual
lingering of those ladies who did not ride, to watch the
start. The King, however, seemed in no hurry, and
before giving the signal had carefully scanned the face
of each of the huntsmen. His scrutiny ended, he
mounted his horse, and rode carelessly up to two knights,
both bulky, sober-looking men, who kept together in
the little throng. These the King saluted courteously,
but with a slight significance.

" My Lord Chester, by some strange chance I have
forgot my hunting-horn. If thou wouldst do my pleas
ure, thou, together with Ferrars, here, wilt return to the
castle for it. 'T is in the possession of my Lord de
Burgh, who, together with certain other gentlemen, will
not hunt to-day."

Both earls were looking at the King with mingled
curiosity and astonishment. Presently, however, Fer
rars' face changed. " These others — shall we find
them with De Burgh?" he asked.

" Ah ! " muttered Chester, adding aloud : " And will
the hunt be long continued, this afternoon, sire? "

John answered them with a long smile. " Perchance
ye may find De Burgh in the council-chamber ; and how
can I tell if, chancing to find myself alone in the forest
this afternoon, I should not break a saddlegirth ? "

This was enough. With an obedient salute the two
earls wheeled about and urged their horses rapidly
toward the road which wound upward toward the
castle.

To cover their retreat, John, at the same moment,
cried out loudly : " Let the hounds be unleashed ! A
guinea to each who can, this afternoon, show his spear
head red with a boar's blood ! "

268 <ancanoni?eti

The ladies on foot drew away from the company. A
quick scamper of long-nosed dogs, a plunging forward
of powerful horses, a long call from the silver-throated
horns, and then all had disappeared from sight into the
dark aisles of the forest.

Fifteen minutes later the King, after three or four
adroit manoeuvres, found himself galloping alone through
the gray labyrinth of tree-trunks, while the pack and the
hunters were racing madly away, far to the right.
Through the heavy air the long cries and the shouts
came faintly to his ears. The solitude, and the speed
of his horse, pleased him. He dug his golden spurs
deep into the smooth flanks of the animal, which
bounded forward, faster than ever, over the fallen
leaves. A magnificent and fearless rider was this true
son of the Conqueror. His head was raised high, and
his nostrils distended, as he inhaled deep gasps of the
frosty oxygen, while he guided the steed on through
the masses of underbrush that impeded their progress.
He was making now a long detour to the left, which
would put him completely out of the reach of any
courtier who might have happened to miss his presence.
Ten minutes brought him into open country, and in
another five he had drawn rein under the southern wall
of Windsor Castle. Here he dismounted, leaving his
animal to wander at will over the ground, knowing
that it would not stray far. A small, concealed pos
tern door admitted him into the castle, and a private
flight of stairs led him up into his own apartments,
whence he swiftly gained the council-room. Within
the small, circular chamber eight men were assembled.
They rose eagerly as John entered, knowing by his
expression, and the swing of his stride, that they had
work before them.

The council was long, and the discussion ranged
over many subjects, all of which, however, bore upon
the single object of England's safety. It lacked just an

at minb&ov 269

hour to the time set for the grand banquet of evening ;
the debate was nearly ended, and the King's mind had
flown away to the thought of his wandering horse and
the outcome of the hunt, when there came an agitated
knocking at the closed door of this most important room
in the castle. There was no time for it to be opened,
for De Warrenne had but just started to his feet when it
was flung back quickly.

" My lords ! — The King ! —John ! "

Isabella of Angouleme was standing in the doorway,
while behind her might be seen the nervous-looking
face of a maid. The Queen was in most unregal array.
Her black hair fell in loose, showering masses over her
slender figure, which was clothed in a neglige robe of
gray, while in her agitated hand she held a small, steel
mirror.

The lords of the council stood staring at her in silent
amazement, making nothing out of her exclamations.
But the King, who knew her vanity and the usual stiff
decorum of her public behavior, advanced nervously to
her side, fearing some calamity.

"Thou didst ask for me, madam?" he said.

At sight of the King, Isabella's manner changed.
She shrank visibly within herself, and her cheeks
colored. She would have drawn back before he reached
her, except for the knowledge that her unusual action
must be explained. When she replied to his question
her tone was haughty, and her manner reserved.

" I crave your pardon for this intrusion, my lord. It
was rumored that the hunt had returned without you,
and that your horse had been found wandering riderless
without the castle. Thus I feared that some accident
must have befallen you, and that it were well to ac
quaint these gentlemen at once with the matter. Again,
my lord, I crave pardon for my foolishness."

" Not foolishness, Isabella," answered the King in a
low voice. " In sooth I thank thee for having shown

270 (tJncanoni?eD

such concern for my welfare. I can remember a day
when thou wouldst have asked no pardon for such
' folly.' "

She moved away without replying, the heat of the
moment having burned itself out, and only anger that
she had been seen in such garb being left in her mind.
Her interruption ended the council. The earls saluted
the King and one another in embarrassed silence and
went their way. Even among themselves none cared
to speak the thoughts that Isabella's action had awak
ened in each mind ; but not one who had been present
at the little scene wondered at John's high humor, even
in the face of the possible danger which threatened
Hubert de Burgh. And, with him, all England was gay
that night.

When darkness finally fell over Windsor Hill, the
castle seemed to waken to a new kind of life. The
banquet-hall had been filled, through the whole after
noon, with a busy swarm of attendants, preparing for
the coming feast. A thousand flickering torches made
a twilight within the dimly towering vaults of the
lofty stone roof. The long, narrow tables were almost
brilliant with the pleasant light of lanterns, copper
lamps, and candles. There had been some idea of
beauty in the arrangement of great banks of holly
and mistletoe about the royal dais at one end of the
room, but on the common tables there was no place
for such frivolities, for already they were overloaded
with the weight of food and dishes. The royal party
entered the room to a well-meant burst of music
from the musicians' gallery which overlooked the hall,
and the instant that the King was seated, a throng of
waiters appeared from the kitchens, bearing the first
course. It was a feast such as only our ancestors could
have endured. Every dish then known to England was
served, and served in such quantities as would have
satisfied a moderately hungry man simply by its ap-

at fKKinDgor 271

pearance. Pages fairly staggered under the weight of
platters and bowls, and the boars'-heads were car
ried upon the shoulders of two men, as much for com
fort as for display. There were roasts of beef, mut
ton, venison, and pork, with broths and soups of the
same ; there were stews of lamb and of kid ; pasties
of every possible species of poultry and game; there
were peacocks, lampreys, carp, and salmon; boars'-
heads, oxen's heads, and calves' brains; there were
roots boiled and roasted ; there were puddings, black,
Yorkshire, white, and plum ; loaves of bread, black,
white, and rye ; there was salt at both ends of the
table ; and there were comfits, sweetmeats, and march-
planes of every variety, many of them not at all unac
ceptable ; lastly, and most necessary of all to the good
cheer of such a banquet, came the wines, ales, beer,
possets, or stronger fermented liquors ; goat's or cow's
milk was drunk by many of the ladies, and no known
species of liquor, save only water, might not have been
obtained at will.

And the company? Truly, on that night the Eng
lish court was resplendent. There was not a beam of
light but had its jewel to shine upon, and no rainbow
would ever have dared attempt to rival the colors that
were mingled together in that hall. Moreover, the crowd
fairly breathed of perfumes, of nearly as many odors as,
and rather more strength than, can be claimed for to
day. After the first ten minutes at table the noise
of laughter and talking that rose to echo among the
stone arches above was fairly deafening. Every one,
noble, servant, and lady alike, talked at the top of his or
her ability. Listeners were there none. As at noon,
the King and Queen, with Salisbury and the bishops,
sat at. the royal table, with the earls ranged in order of
rank below; and innumerable were the unanswered
queries as to the whereabouts of my Lord de Burgh ;
who happened, at that moment, to be upon horseback,

272 2lncanont?et)

about ten miles away, and making an uncommonly disa
greeable progress, against a biting north wind, towards
Saint Alban's Abbey.

The royal table was closely watched, and its occu
pants much commented upon to-night. Certainly the
figures at it were as splendid as possible. The
bishops, of course, could wear only their violet robes
with orders as heavily jewelled as might be. The
King's dress, however, was almost beyond cost; the
Queen's, to make a paradox, still more costly ; while
Salisbury's costume was a white tunic, with belt and
baldric thickly sprinkled with sapphires and pearls; his
long shoes of white, lined with sables, and heavily em
broidered in gold ; while his fair hair was crowned with
a coronet of sapphires and diamonds.

By midnight the eating was over, and some of the
more refined among the women, and a fair sprink
ling of effeminate gallants left the room. Now the
singing, jesting, drinking, and unseemly carousing
steadily increased in noise and unpleasantness, and
before long the most salient marks of civilization would
disappear from the scene.

Queen Isabella was one of the first to leave the hall.
Despite the King's attentions and Salisbury's courtesy,
the feast had been very wearisome to her. Perhaps
she envied the commoner folk below, who seemed to
be enjoying themselves so honestly. At all events, she
took the first opportunity of requesting the King's indul
gence as to her departure ; and, as soon as she was seen
to have gone, etiquette permitted any lady in the room
to follow her.

After Isabella had left, the King grew thoughtful.
He replied absently to the remarks and comments of his
companions, and gazed with unseeing eyes down the
immense room, and at the crowd which filled it. Fi
nally he became restless and impatient. His face wore a
disgusted look as now and then the refrain of some very

at flUtnUsior 273

free song would reach his ears ; though Salisbury could
very well remember the day when that species of mirth
had in no wise troubled him. At length, unable to en
dure it longer, he called a lackey to him and sent him
from the room upon a whispered errand. No one at
the little table spoke while the man was gone. The
bishops were sleepy, and the poor Earl weary and
aching with the day's length and his morning's fall.

The King's servant returned, bearing with him a long,
dark cloak. This John threw about himself, then rose
from his place. Smilingly he leaned over the table and
spoke to the five who sat stiffly about it.

" God give you good-even, friends, and send you all
as easy an escape from this merriment as have I. I go
to join the Queen. Good-night."

Slipping unperceived from the dais, the glittering
brilliancy of his dress concealed beneath the cloak,
he glided quietly around the tables and out at a small
side door.

Salisbury looked about him disconsolately. Three of
the bishops were nodding over their glasses, and the
fourth, Peter de Rupibus, had allowed his white head to
sink upon the table before him, and in the midst of all
the uproar lay wrapped in sleep.

18

CHAPTER XVI
ELEANOR'S ENVOY

THE year 1211 entered drearily into the calen
dar, and its first months sped by with ominous
rapidity. Europe was watching England with
one eye and Rome with the other, and appeared to
be highly interested in the sight presented. The
Eternal City looked only at England, but held out a
sympathetic hand to France at the same time. And
the poor little island, in troubled embarrassment at so
much attention, glanced first up, then down, then let
its eyelids fall in weariness. That is to say, King
John at last became callous to the increasing difficul
ties which confronted him. He paid no attention to
the spasmodically increasing rigidity of the Interdict ;
he only shrugged his shoulders when he heard of the
publication of an illegal and insulting papal document,
forbidding any Englishman, or any foreigner either,
for that matter, to pay reverence and obedience to the
English ruler; and companies headed by Hubert de
Burgh were no longer sent to put a stop to treasonable
councils, whether held by barons or clergy. Indeed,
had John attempted to do this last, his favorite could
not have stood the strain of overwork for more than a
month; for growling assemblies had come to be one of
the most popular pastimes of the nation. In defiance
of Innocent's latest Bull, however, the King kept open
court at Windsor, and found that he was not yet
friendless. The four bishops, twenty-seven earls and
barons, and as many knights as the castle would hold,

(Eleanor's €nfco? 275

were in constant attendance upon him. Early in Jan
uary, however, the Queen returned again to Winches
ter, having been offended by some unconscious act of
her husband's, and absolutely refusing to be pacified.
At Winchester she remained, untouched by any over
ture of peace from John or his intimates. She kept a
large court of her own always with her, and seemed to
prefer ruling them with undisputed sway to being
merely an adjunct of the King's authority.

The Pearl of Brittany knew nothing of all the gossip
concerning her uncle and his Queen; neither did she
think much about them, save that she was aware of the
fact that in some way Isabella held in her hands the
destiny of the Count de la Marche, and, with him, of
Louis de la Bordelaye. This, however, was much.
Continually Eleanor was exciting her brain with a
prisoner's fancies of plots, plans, and hopes of freedom ;
freedom for herself and for the man she loved. Daily
her solitude and restrictions grew more unbearable.
Only a weekly note or message from La Bordelaye, or
possibly, as of old, the sound of his voice or lute from
the courtyard, — that was the closest communication
permitted them. The regular visits from her confessor
were more satisfactory. Those breaks in her monoto
nous existence were beginning to take on a new form
in her eyes. It was now three full years since she had
seen Anthony for the first time. His coming never
varied in its perfect regularity; and had they not been
placed so far apart, these visits, too, might have be
come wearisome to her; for each was but a repetition
of the last. She had come to look upon the monk less
as an individual than as one of a vast, unvaried type
of humanity. But this opinion of him was changed
in the flash of a single instant, and by the barest
chance. It was on a March afternoon, and Eleanor
and Fitz-Hubert sat alone together in her small
living-room, partaking, as usual, of cakes and posset.

276 <Uncanom?ed

The lazily moving eyes of the Princess happened to
rest for a moment upon the unconscious profile of the
monk, who sat, with the little horn in one hand, gazing
meditatively into the log-fire, which was granted the
royal prisoner from November to April. The leaping
light of the flames threw his features into bold relief,
while the rest of his figure was left adumbrated in the
twilight. After she had looked at him long and
thoughtfully, in silence, Eleanor continued her think
ing, aloud.

"Thou hast a strong face, Anthony," she said, drop
ping the ' father.' "'Tis not handsome, — but me-
seemeth one might trust thee rarely in time of trouble. "

Anthony turned toward her instantly, with a new
feeling at his heart. It was the first time that she had
ever made a personal remark to him. After a moment
he answered her quietly: "Thou art in trouble,
madam ? "

" Nay, " was the quick response. " 'T was but an idle
thought that I did voice."

Then silence fell over them again, until at last
Anthony took his leave. Nevertheless that moment of
conversation stayed in the minds of both of them, and
'in the end bore fruit. The next time they met, El
eanor spoke to him quite freely of herself and of her
past life, which was a subject that had scarcely been
touched save in the confessional, since that first visit,
now so long past. Hitherto, also, she had shown
great reticence concerning whatever unhappiness she
endured. Now, at last, her loneliness and her sorrow
were passionately poured out to him, and all that he
had hitherto read in her face was verified in her words.
One topic, however, whether by design or unconquer
able shyness, she never opened. Constantly Anthony
listened for the name of De la Bordelaye, and not once
did he hear it. He wondered if the slight intimacy
could have been ended. Hope came and deepened, till

277

it grew into belief; and then, indeed, was Anthony mad
with happiness. One person only knew how he was
being all unwittingly deceived. She who had by
chance overheard many of the long talks between
Eleanor and the priest from the darkness of her own
room knew much that went near to make her tell what
was so clear to her, to him who seemed so willing
ly blind. At times Mary had even been permitted
to join her mistress and the confessor before the bring
ing of the sweetmeats ; and these moments had been the
happiest that the country-girl knew. Always Anthony
was her idol. Once she had mourned over his uncon
sciousness of her feeling for him. Now she was heart
sick at sight of his growing devotion toward one so
impossible in every way for him. Mary's insight had
become abnormally keen. It was alike her torment
and her delight. Anthony's heart and brain were an
open book to her; and Mary could read manuscript
without stumbling by this time. Eleanor she had long
known completely. She saw clearly, and blamed
neither the one nor the other for what was taking
place between them; the grave misunderstanding that
she dared not right. Because Eleanor had, by chance,
poured out a long-restrained confidence into the ears of
a suddenly found friend, that friend had dared to hope
so much that was unwarranted! And so Mary ever
longed to cry the truth to him, and ever fought with
herself to keep back the wish, knowing how useless it
would be, and how he would hate her for what she
tried to say; till finally the impulse lessened, and
then died, and she had kept her silence.

At last the spring advanced apace, and the freshen
ing turf of the King's Orchard was swept again by
Eleanor's trailing garments. There was a strong hope
in her breast that she might see Louis de la Bordelaye
here some day, that he might come to her as she had
found him, a year ago; and this time, she vowed, he

278 cUncanom?eD

should not leave her at the very moment of their
meeting. But the Sieur did not come. Eleanor grew
impatient, and nursed her hope all the more carefully.
An accidental glimpse of his head through a loophole
in the keep threw her into sudden despair. The
warm days dragged on. Sunshine gave her no lighten
ing of the heart. She refused to go out. She ruined
her tapestry, broke her tambour-frame, flung aside her
lute, and gave herself up to alternate fits of violent
weeping and unapproachable moodiness. Her ladies
were of no use. Mary was better. Eleanor seemed
not to mind her presence, and would even, at times,
deign to listen to the quaint stories that had come to
Somerset over the Welsh border, and which the French
Princess now heard for the first time. Gradually, how
ever, Eleanor grew weak with her long seclusion. All
color left her face and lips; and her magnificent hair
became so thin that the old-time coifs could scarcely be
used upon her head. She was very irritable, also,
now. Poor little Clothilde and Marie wept together
daily over the rebuffs that their formerly gentle lady
now chose to give them, and then wailed again, as
loudly, over her failing health.

The Sieur de la Bordelaye in some way got news
of his lady's illness and contrived to send a note to
her by means of the old porter. It was a missive full
of tenderness and loyal devotion, albeit expressed in
terms of such honor and courtesy that no princess
could have taken offence at it. He waited long for
some reply, whether by word or letter, to his token.
Nothing came. Eleanor, in all the capriciousness of
one ill, had fallen out of humor with the very one for
want of a sight of whom she had got into so deplorable
a state. She read the letter, turned whiter than ever,
then feebly bade Mary burn it. In astonishment Mary
obeyed the command. Five minutes later madam was
in tears because she had not kept it.

(Eleanor's Cnfco? 279

Then, at last, all Mary's patience with destiny fled.
She had grown to love the Princess very dearly, des
pite, or, perhaps, because of her misunderstanding of
Anthony. However .it was, the peasant, who was at
heart no peasant, had great pity for the girl who,
though no older than herself, had never had any one to
lean upon in times of irresponsible weakness. Now
she took upon herself a daring action. In Eleanor's
name she despatched old John Norman, post-haste, to
Glastonbury, for madam's confessor. Old John rather
approved the idea of a day's ride in the country, and
set forth on his mare with right good-will. It was
barely dawn when he left the castle, and evening when
he came riding in again ; for what horse, however old
he might be, could not be made to do forty miles in a
day for the sake of Eleanor of Brittany ?

Through that long day Mary sat in the bedchamber
of her Princess, bearing with unwearying courage all
the nervousness, caprice, and tearful complaints that
must be endured ; for Mary had come of a sturdy old
stock, whose sensibilities were armored with a solid
layer of flesh and good, rich blood, in whose brilliant
life there was not a hint of blue.

It was a July noon, hot and droning, and fourteen
days after Anthony's last visit to Bristol. The refec
tory was not thronged that day at dinner. For once it
was too warm for even a monk to wish to eat ; and,
besides this, there happened to be a goodly number in
the infirmary just now. The usual rigidity of dinner
etiquette being relaxed, Anthony had seated himself
beside Philip, and, there being no reader, talked with
him quietly throughout the meal. The prior, about
to start upon a journey, dined in his own apartments,
together with William Vigor. They were going to
one of the four country-seats which belonged, in real
ity, to the abbots of Glastonbury, but which any tem
poral head of the monastery might use.

280

When dinner was nearly over, a lay-brother was
obliged to leave the table, that he might answer a pon
derous knock which sounded at the front entrance, near
St. Joseph's chapel. Presently William Lorrimer,
the lodge-keeper, entered the refectory, calling out :

" Brother Anthony ! Brother Anthony ! A messen
ger for thee ! "

Anthony rose quickly to his feet.

"Come hence with me, William," he said in a low
voice. "Give me the message while we go to him
who brought it."

Old William chuckled maliciously at the murmur of
disappointed curiosity that followed them from the
room. He thought that he knew why he was being
drawn away ; but as he passed the doorway, he looked
pleasantly over his shoulder and winked at the assem
bled company. They should have satisfaction when
Anthony was gone.

" Who is the messenger, and whence comes he ? "

The old fellow hesitated. He was divided between
a desire to be first to impart news, and the wish to
tantalize the monk by making him wait. However, the
waiting would be very short. He decided to tell.

" 'T is a rider, who saith he comes from Bristol
Castle. His name is John Norman, and — " here
William suddenly found himself staring after the flying
form of Anthony, who had started forward as if mad on
hearing the name of the messenger.

Old John still sat his horse outside the farthest gate.
He was in a state of high indignation at not having
been immediately invited in for refreshment. He
delivered his message rather sulkily, but softened at
once when the monk, who, at a glance, had perceived
his weariness, bade him dismount and accompany
Lorrimer into the refectory.

" I must gain permission to return with you an 't is
possible," explained Anthony, as he hurried away

281

from the old pair and bent his steps toward Harold's
rooms. He was not at all confident that the prior
would consent to his unusual departure, but he would
move heaven itself in order to gain the permission.

To his astonishment no objection whatever was made
to his proposal. Instead of objecting, Harold seemed
positively pleased at the prospect of his going.
Anthony could not understand this unusual attitude,
but he comprehended it a little later, very well. Harold
was, indeed, relieved. He dared not tell the monk to
stay as long as he would at Bristol Castle, but, if
wishes could have been effectual, Anthony would not
have returned to the monastery under a week. For,
unaccountable as it appeared, the prior of Glastonbury
Abbey was afraid of the son of Hubert Walter.

During the whole day Princess Eleanor had not risen
from her couch, nor had she spoken save once or twice,
— to send Mary on an errand, to voice a grievance, or
to refuse an offer of food. The French demoiselles
had spent most of the morning in the room, at their
embroidery, but were dismissed at last by their impa
tient mistress, and retired, 'dismally, to their own
apartment. Mary's presence, however, was soothing.
Her calm, strong face reminded Eleanor of that
Madonna to whom she had been wont to pray long ago,
at Falaise. In the half-torpid state to which, in the
afternoon, she gradually sank, the Princess even con
founded her attendant with some presence more spir
itual than tangible.

One by one the hot hours dropped away over the
western horizon, and the noontide clatter of the court
yard was but a memory. The afternoon sun fell lower.
Mary sat at the window, watching the little space of
white road that seemed to rise, so unaccountably, out
of St. Peter's square. Eleanor lay vaguely dreaming
of the perfume of flowers, and the fresh freedom of
great fields that she so longed to enter. Then her

282 ctJncanoni?eD

thoughts turned in another direction. Her gray eyes
opened widely, and the color in her face deepened.
She was awake now to her own thoughts. Her lips,
once and again, moved a little, but no words came
from them. She never noticed the deepening twilight.
The last twittering of birds that sang, Heaven knows
where about that -lonely place, was inaudible to her.
She did not see Mary, who had half started to her feet,
and was gazing earnestly up the bit of road. In five
minutes came a clatter of horses' hoofs through the
twilight stillness. When these had stopped, Mary
moved nervously toward the door, listening. The
sound of footsteps came to her ears. She had put out
her hand to open the door when Eleanor spoke.

" Mary, I would have thee send for Father Anthony,
my confessor. I have a matter of great import on
which to speak with him."

Mary flung back a leather curtain, opened the door,
and spoke a few words apparently to some one without.
Eleanor looked at her curiously. " What sayest thou,
girl?"

" You ask for me, Princess ? " came a mellow, mascu
line voice.

Eleanor started up, and her eyes were frightened.
"How comes this?" she murmured to herself. "Do
— I — dream?"

"Nay, dear lady," answered the maid. "Thou
dreamest not. This morning I myself did send for the
confessor, for I saw thee troubled, and ill, and there
was none here to help thee."

A look of mingled relief and joy spread over the face
of the Princess. " God bless thee, dear Mary. Wilt
leave us, now ? "

Anthony, too, as he entered, gave a look of gratitude
to the girl. But after that his eyes were turned
toward Eleanor, and the love-light in them was so
strong that an agony came over the other woman. As

'js Cube? 283

she crept out of the glowing room, Mary's eyes were
filled with tears.

Anthony, after a moment's hesitation, seated himself
upon a stool beside the bed. Eleanor drew her gar
ments more closely about her feet, and then lay back
again on the pillows. One lock of her black hair fell
over the couch and down close to the monk's hand.
He looked at it reverently, then fixed his eyes upon
her face, waiting.

"Didst know that I was wishing for thee?" she
asked dreamily.

"It was Mary's message that came," he replied.

She paused again, and again he waited.

" Wouldst thou do me great service, — go a long and
weary journey if I asked it?"

"To the ends of the earth," he answered instantly,
not thinking of his bonds.

• Eleanor smiled. Such devotion was not strange to
her, though it had never before been proffered by a
monk. She continued: "I will make unto thee a con
fession for which no penance need be done, and which
I told thee of once, long ago. But first, I must ask
thee, dost know where mine uncle's Queen, Isabella
of Angouleme, dwelleth now?'5

"She is at Winchester, I have heard."

" And is that far away ? "

"Two days' journey from Glastonbury."

" I have been told that Isabella is wondrous fair. Is
she good, also? "

" How should I know the Queen, madam? "

" Hast forgot how thyself didst tell me of thy early
life, and the pitiful end of it? "

Anthony was silent.

"Is Isabella kind — is she pitying — would she pity
me? " persisted the girl.

"Satan himself would pity thy captivity," was the
answer.

284

" Nay, that was not my question. 'T is the Queen I
would learn of."

He was forced now to a direct reply, and not know
ing what was in her mind, said, with but short hesita
tion: "The Queen would doubtless be kind, Princess."
He was not at all sure of that kindness himself; but
what could loyalty do ?

"Then listen, Anthony. As thou seest, I am un
happy here, alone. The days are ofttimes so long that
meseemeth I shall go mad with solitude and longing;
else die slowly, as I almost think that I do now. Not
many years ago I would not have dreaded death. I
prayed that it might come to me at Falaise, and some
times at Corfe too. Now — God forbid that I should
go ere I taste that joy of living that is denied to
scarce a peasant, or a beggar, in all the world ! Ah,
Anthony ! Anthony ! I love ! Even in my captivity it
has come to me. For more than a year joy hath lain
ever just without my reach, withheld by lock and bar.
It is Louis de la Bordelaye, the truest, most gallant
warrior that e'er came out of Poictou, that I love.
He is attendant upon De la Marche, — a simple gentle
man, without title or estate. Now think you not,
Anthony, that if the Queen, whom mine uncle in youth
did love so passionately that he bore her away from her
betrothed and her simple life to rule, with him, over
this great land, think you not, if she were pleaded
with to take our part, that her prayers might have
effect upon John? Willingly will I renounce all my
rightful claims. Surely a maid can be no such dan
gerous rival to a great king, even though my blood be
better than his. My word is royal. We would go
away together — I and mon Sieur, to his country, to
live there alone in obscurity, with only our happiness
for dower. Why should it not be so? But one thing
do I need, that my freedom may thus be accomplished,
— a friend. And him I have. Thou, Anthony, art

285

my friend and my guide. Thou shalt go — thou
wilt go to Winchester, to Isabella — for my sake —
Anthony?"

And Anthony heard it all. Every syllable uttered
by that low, silvery voice which never rose to great
heights of passion, yet whose quiet depths held in them
a living love and a living sorrow, had beaten down,
and down, into his heart and upon his brain. He saw
everything. The thin veil was quite fallen from his
eyes. His dream city had faded forever into nothing
ness. His hopeless hope lay, like a bunch of spring
violets, dead in his lap. In his heart there was a great
agonized cry, unutterable. He raised one chilly hand
slowly to his temples. Then, feeling her eyes upon
him, another kind of quiet came. That she loved
Louis de la Bordelaye he accepted. But that he — he
who loved her so far beyond life and death — should
plead for her love for this other, should go to Win
chester for his happiness as well as hers, — no! no!
no! Anthony Fitz-Hubert was no saint yet. In the
midst of this inward tumult he lifted his head and
looked toward her again. Her head had fallen back
upon the pillows, the animation had died out of her
face, her eyes were closed. She was heart-sick again.
Pity came to take sides against the monk's inner
self. At that instant he was all but yielding to her
and promising to do whatever she should wish. Then,
once more, the strong, haughty face of De la Bordelaye
was before his eyes, and he shrank. From all that he
knew of the Poictevin (and that was much, since for
the last three years he had confessed him), he seemed
an honorable, loyal gentleman. So far as could be
surmised, Eleanor was without a rival in her lover's
eyes, since neither her name nor that of any woman
had ever passed his lips in connection with himself.
This made it only the more bitter for Anthony. He
and De la Bordelaye being alike irreproachable, he had

286 2Jncanoni?e&

been cast aside. For the moment Anthony had for
gotten his monkhood ; but the remembrance of it came
back to him presently. A spasm of the deepest bitter
ness passed over his face. All this was but a part of
Hubert Walter's heritage. With what folly had he
been pleased to delude his vanity! He, a monk, base-
born ; she, a princess royal, at heart a gentle girl, —
and he had, for one moment, dared, presumed, to be
jealous of her love ! A sweat of shame broke out upon
his brow. He knelt down beside the bed.

"Madam — Lady — I crave your indulgence to return
to-night to Glastonbury, that I may leave there for
Winchester at dawn to-morrow."

Eleanor's eyes opened wearily. "What didst thou
say? Thou wilt return to Glastonbury at once? Go,
then."

He considered her thoughtfully for a little, not
daring to be disappointed with the way in which she
had received his sacrifice. How should she under
stand that it was a sacrifice? " I should be back again
in five days; but, were there any delay, it might be
six."

"Why should you return again so soon? Methinks
that I shall not need confession till November at latest,
for I will not trouble you to come to Bristol now as oft
as you were wont before. "

" But, Eleanor — madam — you will wish to hear
Isabella's answer."

Then at last she understood. Springing from her
couch, she fairly threw herself at his feet, seizing his
hands and crying to him hysterically: "Oh, thou wilt
go? Thou wilt, indeed, go? Nay, forgive, forgive;
I had not heard aright! Methought thou didst refuse
my prayer — thy long silence — God bless thee, father,
friend! Go to-night to Glastonbury? Surely not ! I
would have thee a little longer at my side, and thou
must rest, too. Surely, surely Isabella will grant to

'js Cube? 287

thee our freedom. T is so little a thing ! And thou
shalt have six days' absence. I will try to wait so
long. Thou mightest be back by then?"

He lifted her up from her knees, half frightened at
the demonstration, and answered her gently : " Nay, I
could scarce be back here in six days an I return
not to Glastonbury to-night." This was not true, but
Anthony, now that he was pledged, longed unaccount
ably to be away from Bristol, and on his painful jour
ney. "At the abbey permission must be obtained for
me to travel to Winchester. Fear not," — seeing her
sudden look of anxiety, — "they shall let me go. But
now I must bid thee farewell. See, it grows late."

"But the ride will be long and dark. I would not
have thee do it."

He made a gesture of pleading, and smiled gravely
at her fears.

"Then thou shalt not start again unrefreshed.
Where is Mary ? — Mary ! "

The name had scarcely left her lips when Mary
came into the room, bearing in her hands a great
wooden tray, which held food and drink for Anthony,
and a little silver flagon of wine for her mistress. She
had been waiting in the next room for some minutes,
anxious for Eleanor to finish her conversation with the
monk, that she might take him what she had prepared.
As Mary came in Anthony looked toward her, and their
eyes met for an instant. The peasant girl gazed
searchingly at his haggard face, perceiving every change
that had come into it since last she saw him. He
noticed nothing. Anthony would have been incredu
lous had he been told that, in his way, his indifference
to Mary was quite as cruel as was that of Eleanor of
Brittany to him ; for both were entirely unconscious.

The maid had prepared a small table before him, and
Eleanor, while she drank the wine which had been
brought her, bade her confessor eat Eat? How

288

should he do that? He could have eaten dust as easily
as food. Hastily forcing a few morsels down his
throat, he rose, and with many incoherent excuses,
lifted the hand of the Princess deferentially to his lips,
and so left her apartment and the castle. In the
courtyard, by the summer twilight, sat the guard of
the keep, gambling, drinking, and laughing together.
Of these men Anthony asked his horse, and one of
them, grumbling a little, went to fetch it. The poor
beast was weary, but no more so than its master.
Anthony led it through the inner court and stood near
the drawbridge preparing to mount, when there was a
sound behind him. He looked about. Mary stood
there, half hesitating, half anxious, with a little pack
age in her hand.

" 'T is but a manchet and some meat," she said, prof
fering it to him. "Thou wilt be faint ere reaching
Glastonbury."

He looked at her with a kind of smile. "Thou art
good to me, Mary. I thank thee for this."

Then, upon a sudden impulse, she took a step nearer
to him, and asked in a whisper, nervous at her own
presumption: "She has hurt thee, Anthony?"

He was startled and slightly confused. Recovering
himself quickly he answered : " Hurt me, Mary? Nay,
child. How should so gentle a lady as the Princess
Eleanor have hurt a monk ? "

She returned him an answer, after a moment, which
he barely caught, but which gave him some little food
for metaphysical meditation on his journey back to the
abbey: "Even as a vine, sometimes, may kill the oak
which sustains it; though it be no fault of either, but
God's law."

And Mary was a peasant.

Anthony clattered over the bridge and across the
deserted cathedral square, but did not take the wind
ing, country road which passed southwest of the city

289

and up into Somerset. Instead, he entered the nar
row, curling streets of the west town, still lighted
by the sunset's afterglow; and presently he stopped
before the door of the Falcon Inn. A feeling of lone
liness had led him hither. Once more he wanted the
proof that somewhere he was welcome for his own sake.
It had been his only real possession after all; though
until now the dead dream had been fast clung to.
That being gone, his heart turned with double tender
ness toward the little company of people to whom he
was a friend in life, a comforter in death.

He was not expected to-night, and no congregation
awaited him within the tavern. But the landlord and
his son would summon as many burghers as could be
found at their homes, while he doffed his monk's gown
for the dress that was always kept for him, together
with a small room, above. How should Anthony, as
he dismounted from his horse beneath the grotesquely
painted sign of the inn, be aware that this was but the
third time that he had ever entered those doors
unwatched ?

Plagensext received him with exclamations of joy
and surprise. " Now indeed God be thanked, Master
Anthony, that thou art come ! Surely 't was Providence
led thee hither to-night of all nights !"

" And wherefore, Martin ? "

"For this. Hark ye. But this morning good Mis
tress Tomson, the mercer's wife, i' the next street,
was delivered of child. 'Tis but a delicate babe, and
not like to live long. Neither priest nor monk can
Master Tomson bribe to baptize the boy, and, despite
thy words, Mistress Madelon would feel far easier were
it consecrated ere it goes. Wilt not in pity come with
me, but to the next square, and perform the baptism
for them? They do know thou art a monk; and they
love and reverence thee for all that thou hast done,
since the coming of this cursed Interdict."

19

290

" And what have I done for them, Martin ? " ques
tioned Anthony, half sadly, half eagerly.

" Done for them — for us all ? Thou hast given us a
faith that is far beyond the reach of what was taken
away; thou hast given us good courage; thou hast
uplifted us by thine own ensample," responded the
landlord, with earnest feeling. Evidently he had
not listened for naught to those sermons and discus
sions which he had permitted to take place in his
hostel.

Anthony's eyes brightened. " Certes will I go with
thee to Mistress Tomson and the babe. But there may
be no meeting to-night; for, the baptism over, I must
wend my way back with all haste to Glastonbury. Six
days hence, however, I shall return hither, and thou
must summon the company to be in readiness for my
coming."

At this Master Martin nodded with satisfaction.
Anthony's horse was put for the time into the stable
of the tavern, and the monk followed the inn-keeper
down the darkening street, and finally into a crooked
little shop, above which lived the family of Master
Thomas Tomson, mercer.

An hour later Anthony was in the highroad beyond
the city, guiding his animal carefully along, by star
light, amid the falling dew. In the darkness the eyes
of the monk shone, and his heart was lighter. His
mind was filled with the thought of the frail little body
which he had so lately held in his arms, while his lips
had murmured the words which the baby life was
soon to follow heavenwards. He heard again the
joyous welcome that had been given to him, Anthony,
the outcast. He remembered that they had trusted a
soul to his care. He saw the circle of kindly faces
that had gathered close about him in the candle-light.
They had given him reverence, had thought him worthy
of gratitude for what little he had done. They had

291

kept hope in his breast with the thought that he had a
place in their lives. Comfort for that other loss had
been given him.

So the hours of evening and the long miles of his
ride passed by together, and it was after midnight when
his exhausted animal drew up at the great gate of Glas-
tonbury Abbey. Anthony himself ached with fatigue.
The warm breath of the midsummer night had shrouded
his senses with overpowering drowsiness. Loudly he
knocked at the gate, and waited for William to open it.
Presently the old man stumbled out of his lodge, lan
tern in hand, rending the air with unholy exclamations.
Standing on the inside of the gate, he called out in
his cracked voice : —

" Confess quickly whoso you may be, man or woman,
for, by the bones of Saint Duncan, I swear, none other
shall pass this gate to-night! Answer, now, and see
that it be truth."

"What say you, William Lorrimer?" demanded an
unmistakably masculine voice. "I am Anthony Fitz-
Hubert, and, an you open not quickly to me, I shall
fall fast asleep without here, on my horse."

" Anthony Fitz-Hubert ! Lord ! Lord ! What to do
now!" muttered the old fellow to himself. At that
hour of the night a man's brains were not apt to be
lively. He could see no other way than to let the
monk in with all speed. This he did, mumbling like
one in a dream ; and, indeed, in a dream Anthony be
lieved him to be. His horse he gave into the old man's
charge, and entered the abbey by the door beside Saint
Joseph's chapel.

An unwonted stream of light fell athwart the stone
corridor from the doorway of the day-room. The great
monastery was absolutely still. From above there came
no murmur of matutinal psalms. Anthony wondered a
little, and stumbled wearily through the light. The
illumination was in the scriptorium, within which, at

292 <ancattom?eti

a table, stood Philip, brush in hand, busy over a yel
lowed parchment.

"Philip!"

The young man looked up, peering sleepily into the
gloom before him. " 'T was Anthony's voice," he said
to himself.

Anthony stepped into the room. "It is I," he re
sponded, with, it must be confessed, no startling bril
liancy. But he added, curiously: "What dost thou
here at such an hour? Is it a penance? " Then, after
an instant : " And why is the abbey so silent ? Surely
it must be past the hour for matins ? "

A look as of bodily pain came into the gentle face of
the other monk. His large eyes rested mournfully
upon the sternly carven features of Fitz-Hubert.
Anthony noted the pallor of his face, and the dark cir
cles that lay beneath his lower lashes. Philip hesitated
long to answer, but at last he said slowly: "Ask me
naught, Anthony, I beg of thee. This is a penance,
an thou like it so."

Then a half knowledge of the truth came upon the
other, but he only asked: "Is Harold still here? If
so, I must have speech with him by lauds. "

Philip shook his head. "Harold departed for Ven-
ningwood before compline."

"And William Vigor?"

"Went with him."

Anthony drew a deep breath and seated himself upon
a stool. Standing was weary work, after such a day
as his had been. Philip also seated himself at the
table and waited for the other to speak again. Pres
ently he did so.

" Since there is none here to grant me permission or
to forbid a departure, I shall e'en leave at dawn for
Winchester. I go upon command of the Princess; and
it will be six full days ere I return again."

A look of relief crossed the weary, youthful face of

293

his companion. "It is well that thou shouldst go,"
said Philip. " Now will I bring thee some refresh
ment. Then thou shalt lie in the day-room and sleep
till dawn, at least. Thou art aweary."

Weary indeed he was. Anthony had almost lost the
power of coherent thought. He accepted gratefully
the milk, meat, and unsweetened cakes that Philip
brought from the refectory; and then, without more
ado, flung himself upon the improvised couch which
was already prepared in the day-room, and slept.
Philip still sat at his task in the scriptorium, his head
aching, his eyes half-closed with sleep, until the
shadowy summer dawn showed through the windows,
and the birds in the oaks outside began to pipe those
old-time virelays which we, of to-day, would surely
recognize. Neither psalms nor lauds had been sung
that morning; and at six o'clock there was not a single
monk in the library for the reading hour. A little
after that time Anthony, rested, refreshed, and melan
choly with returned memory, stood by his newly
saddled horse outside the great gate of Glastonbury.
Philip was beside him.

"Anthony," asked the young monk, after a slight
hesitation, "wilt thou need money for thy journey? "

"Far more than I shall want I have," was the
answer.

Indeed, Fitz-Hubert was more than amply supplied
with gold, brought to him at Glastonbury by De Burgh
himself, just as it had been sent from the royal treasury
through the King's generosity. It lay now in one large
bag, securely locked in the treasury of this abbey.
From it, at rare intervals, its owner extracted sufficient
to pay for his simple wants at Bristol, and something
for charity among his little company of followers there.
The Benedictine law concerning a monk's possession
of private moneys was very stringent in letter, very lax
in execution; so that while it was well enough known

294

that Anthony as a monk had no right to a royal gift,
not even those prelates who held him in disfavor
thought of taking away his possession, but rather
viewed him with more respect for being of means.

Philip was quite satisfied by the answer. Still, how
ever, Anthony did not mount his horse. Both monks
wished to speak, both shrank from doing so. Finally,
laying one hand upon the other's shoulder, Anthony
said gently: "This — this — monkery is no place for
thee, Philip."

Philip flushed painfully. "Indeed 'tis rare that it
happens thus," he answered, with downcast eyes. "I
am accustomed to it. Thou knowest I am not of gentle
birth. The monastery is better than my first home."

"None the less dost thou deserve a higher place."

"Not so. 'T is thou who art not fitted to endure
such sin."

Anthony made no reply, for there was nothing to
say. Silently he pressed Philip's hand, and, springing
upon his horse, turned his face toward the east. He
was bent upon an errand which, though neither Eleanor
nor he could guess it, was forever to ruin the captive's
cause. If they had but dared to take the matter to
the King himself! — But Anthony set off, full of hope,
full of grief, toward the cathedral city, where lay for
him a new sorrow, a new sacrifice, and a new glory of
the soul.

CHAPTER XVII

ISABELLA OF ANGOULEME

THE royal city of Winchester was swathed in a
sunset glow of cloudy pink and gold. The three
great structures which had given to the cluster
of smaller huts and buildings the name of "city," all
monuments of royalty, two to man, one to God, were
haloed with the light that played about their turrets
and spires; and long beams of it were hurtled from
their white walls down into the little network of streets
below. The older of the palaces had for half a century
been the favorite home of England's kings, but now
was become the constant abiding-place of England's
Queen, not having been, for the past five years, empty
of its royal occupant for more than three months at a
time.

On this evening of August third, in the year 1211,
Isabella sat in one of her withdrawing rooms, sur
rounded by a small court of gentlemen, and attended
by four silent maids of honor, who stood, as masks of
propriety, uncomfortably behind her. Poor things!
They were machines of their royal lady's ownership,
belonging to her, body and soul, if souls they had.
Cleverly constructed, too, were they; for, when occa
sion demanded, they could say "oui" and "non" with
faultless pronunciation, and a gratifying vacuity of
manner, to which ma Dame had long since trained
them.

As over these women, so over everything about her,
Isabella dominated absolutely. To the ends of her

296

fingers she was French. No language but her own
was spoken in her presence. The tapestry and ap
pointments in all her rooms were Gallic. The dishes
that she ate were made from recipes sent over the
Channel. Her very dogs and horses , were imported
from her native province, and at Paris were woven
the stuffs from which her gowns were fashioned.
Should an honest English sentence chance to be ad
dressed to her, her lofty grace shrivelled in an instant
to a mass of frowns.

The reputation of^this Queen of England was great
for nothing but her beauty of face and form ; and since
her entire state had been founded upon that, there
must needs have been truth in the reports of her
fairness. Lovely she certainly was, as she reclined
upon a couch more luxurious than any other in the king
dom, her garment of white damask trailing about her
feet in a mass of intricate embroidery. She was a
decided brunette. Her hair, black as night and
slightly coarse, was arranged loosely under a jewelled
coif. Her eyes were somewhat small, black, and very
brilliant. Her brows were delicate and her forehead
low. The satin skin for which she was so renowned
was of the creamy, colorless, southern type, in start
ling contrast to which was the brilliant scarlet of her
small mouth. Beautiful and delicate as the ensemble
was, there was none the less a lingering expression
about the face that a woman would have hated, and
an honest man have feared. Her manners were well
restrained, and but slightly coquettish ; and her voice,
as she spoke with those about her, musical and slow.

Seated close about her chair were six men, three of
them nobles, and high in the councils of the State;
the others were what an Englishman had once desig
nated as "puling French troubadours, fit only to sing
their silly songs to tavern wenches or to pussy-cats ".
Yet they amused their lady when none better was to

of attQouleme 297

be had; and, truth to tell, their wit was quicker and
their thoughts more keen than those of many a beef -fed
baron of Isabella's adopted country. Of the nobles,
two were old admirers of the Queen ; the third, Sayer,
Earl of Winton, had been one of John's most devoted
friends, and was but newly entered into the lists of his
wife's favor. In consequence, he was at present more
smiled upon than any other at the Court of Winchester.

Winton was seated close at the Queen's right hand.
He sat leaning towards her from his stool, so that if
she moved an inch in his direction, her shoulder would
have touched his. He kept his eyes fastened unwink-
ingly upon her face and spoke to her in a tone so low
that she smiled lazily, every now and then, to see the
sulky jealousy of the others. But it was her policy to
pamper all of them to a certain degree ; therefore she
spoke as often to Almeric Percy and John de Moorville
as she replied to the murmurs of the Earl. The con
versation swayed from grave to frivolous, and was
rendered somewhat monotonous by the constant flattery
of the courtiers to the Queen.

" 'T is said," remarked Isabella, during a pause, "that
Peter de Rupibus, infirm with years as he is, hath got
himself to France on a mission of diplomacy."

"Ay; the Bishop would move heaven and earth to
straighten out this popish tangle."

"De Rupibus is most loyal to the King," put in
Percy, listlessly.

Winton sneered.

" Canst tell me where John is at present ? " queried
the Queen, who knew the whereabouts of her husband
perfectly well.

"Who could keep track of John when thou wert
near?" returned Sayer, in a half-whisper. He was in
constant communication with his master, who had the
grace not to be jealous of him ; but of this Isabella was
ignorant.

298 Oncanonf?eU

"Thou shalt have a special audience later," she said,
in a tone that was inaudible to the others.

He kissed her hand.

"Art going to the King's council at Bradenstoke,
whither thou art bid, next week, my Lord Earl?" asked
De Moorville, with respectful malice.

"Verily I had not thought upon it," returned Sayer,
with a swift glance at the Queen.

" 'T is called for Thursday. Nay, now, I had made
sure thou wouldst go, sith the messenger came from
thee to me, and informed me that he had thy con
sent"

" Thursday is the day for my feast and morris-dance,"
said the Queen, angrily, noting the rising flush upon
her admirer's cheek. Possibly the Earl would not, after
all, have his private audience that evening.

" Locquefleur, how runs that chanson of thine —
'Vite, vite, 1'Amour s'envole, dans la crepuscule' ? "
queried Percy, who preferred milder forms of dispute.

The Frenchman had not framed a suitable reply when
there came a sudden, portentous knock at the door.
The Queen, frowning a little, for she was out of humor
with Winton, and still angry with the two others for
daring to taunt him, called out for it to be opened.
This permission granted, a lackey entered the room and
advanced to the royal chair.

"Well, villain, what would you?" deigned the Queen.

" Pardon, lady, but there is one newly come hither
who would have immediate speech with you, having
travelled a long journey for the purpose."

"What night he?"

" Madam, — he is — a monk."

Here Winton had the temerity to laugh. Instantly
Isabella's face, which had been growing dangerous,
changed.

" And whence comes this holy one? " she asked, so
graciously that the Earl was sober on the instant, and

of angouleme 299

the servant, who had been quivering with apprehension,
straightened up.

" From Bristol Castle, he saith."

" Bristol ! " cried the Queen, with so strange a ring in
her tones that even her lay-figures shifted their expres
sions and pricked up their ears. " In ten minutes let
the monk be admitted to me here."

The lackey bowed to the floor and hurried from the
room. The royal lady, nervously twisting her long
fingers, turned to her little court.

" Gentlemen, I must pray you to leave me at once.
Ere many hours be gone we shall meet again at the
evening banquet."

Covertly the courtiers glanced at each other in
renewed amazement. It was the most discourteous and
the most abrupt dismissal that any one of them had ever
received from her. Then, one by one, they lifted her
fingers to their lips and silently left the room. Outside
the door, however, expressions changed. The three
Frenchmen, locking arms, hurried away together. The
Englishmen, for once enlisted in the same cause, passed
haltingly down the corridor.

" Bristol ! " ejaculated Winton.

" A monk ! " exclaimed De Moorville.

Percy, with a melancholy smile, put a greater signifi
cance into his gently spoken name : " De la Marche ! "

" Still?"

" I '11 believe it not."

" And yet — 't is true."

Meanwhile, to their mild relief, the Queen had dis
missed her dolls. She felt that she must be alone for
a moment, at least, before the coming of that messenger
of whose arrival she had so often dreamed, that his
actual appearance promised to be far more startling
than it would otherwise have seemed. Blindly she
began to walk up and down the little apartment, her
breath coming in swift gasps. So violently was her

300 <tJncanoni?e&

heart beating that she stopped at length before the
open casement, looking with unseeing eyes down over
the city which now lay quiet and indistinct in the fading
twilight. Isabella's thoughts had flown with her far
away, hundreds of miles, over land and sea, and into
the heavy walls of a fierce old Poictevin Castle, wherein
one lover • alone had lived for her ; — one lover, and
how much more than that, too, had he been ! — guide,
friend, father, and, above all else, her master. He was
the only master she had ever known. Ah ! how the
years flee away, and how our minds and our wishes
change with them ! The Queen's head rested on her
hand. She was calm, now; for Hugo de la Marche
had suddenly become her own again, and the thought
of a messenger from him to her, his pupil, his betrothed,
could not seem strange. Her white figure glimmered
like a shadow at one end of the darkened room. When
the door opened it was so quietly that she heard nothing.
As, at length, she turned from her revery, a dim figure,
standing motionless in the centre of the room, faced
her.

" Wait," she said, in a voice that sounded strangely in
her own ears. " I will have lights brought. Then will
we hold converse together."

It was a relief to both of them to have a few minutes
of preparation for the approaching scene. Anthony
was painfully weary with the length of his ride. Besides
that, he feared this task more than anything that he had
ever feared before in his life, because he was not sure of
his own courage to carry it to the end.

The Queen struck a gong loudly, thrice. Presently
two men entered, bearing with them lighted candles and
fresh torches. When they departed the room was filled
with the faint odor of pitch, and the woman and the
monk were face to face, in the light. The jewels upon
the Queen's head glittered. Anthony's eyes wandered
over her form while she gazed intently upon him.

of angouleme 301

" Thy look — is not strange to me," she said at last,
in a puzzled tone, and a little unsteadily.

" I am Anthony Fitz-Hubert, once in the train of
the Earl of Salisbury, here and at Windsor," was the
immediate, expressionless reply. Anthony had anti
cipated this quasi-recognition, and was determined
that there should be as little said about himself as
possible.

" Oh ! I remember. Thou wert a handsome youth,
- and now a monk ! I should scarce have thought of
thee thus. Stay, now, I do remember the matter. T was
before Hubert Walter's death. Thou didst nearly break
the heart of a maid in my train, — Helene de Ravaillac.
Dost remember her? She returned to me here all
gloomy and tearful, and to this day she hath not married,
— nor ever will, I fancy. Thou 'It see her to-night,
methinks. She is scarce beautiful now; but doubtless
to thee, fresh from the cloister, anything that wears a
kirtle would be lovely."

Isabella had spoken from a desire to cover her own
feeling, and without in any way realizing what the effect
of her tactless words might be upon the man before her.
She had never a doubt that he came from Bristol on
behalf of the Count de la Marche; and inwardly she
vowed that no token of her eagerness and her confusion
should be taken back to his master by the monk.
Therefore she sought still to gain time.

But Anthony ! How little did the Queen realize what
a cold torrent of wretchedness her words had poured over
him ! It was not that he cared any longer for Helene
de Ravaillac. But the mention of her name brought
back again to him the memory of her cruelty and, with
it, once more, the realization of his fate. In the midst
of the present grief of his mission the memories were
doubly bitter. He struggled manfully to speak without
emotion, yet it seemed an age ere he could force a husky
response from his throat.

302

" Doubtless Mademoiselle de Ravaillac has long since
forgotten the unfortunate monk," was his reply.

" Thou art wrong. Women cannot forget so easily ! "
she cried, thinking more of herself than of Helene.

The monk only bowed. This conversation was profit
less. He had not come to Winchester to talk over his
own love affairs.

A short silence ensued. The Queen, once more mis
tress of herself, turned about and walked slowly over
to her chair. Seating herself, she regarded her envoy
curiously for a second, and then spoke.

"Well, well, — thine errand, Sir Anthony. Tell it me
in short words, and quickly, for I have not overmuch
time."

So commanded, Anthony advanced toward the royal
seat, his head bent, his right hand tightly clenched, the
fingers of his left hid in the breast of his loose scapular.
His mind was clear, and there was now but one purpose
in it. After a momentary pause for himself he spake.

" I am come to Winchester from Bristol Castle to
plead with a powerful queen, a kindly woman, in behalf
of one whom birth made equal with thyself, but whom
fortune hath brought far, far below. I plead for one
who looks to thee as an only friend, a single hope ; for
one who bears hint of wrong in neither thought nor
deed ; who would be no enemy to her royal jailer — "

" Her royal jailer ! " cried the Queen, rising to her
feet.

Anthony lifted his head. " Certes," he said, wonder
ing.

Isabella sank back into her chair. " Of whom dost
speak? " she asked.

" Of the Princess Eleanor of Brittany, thy niece," he
answered.

"Ah!"

Anthony heard, in amazement, the pitiful quivering in
that exclamation ; nor could he comprehend the sudden,

of angowleme 303

extreme pallor that came over the Queen's face, leaving
her very lips pale. Disconcerted by her appearance,
however, he was silent.

" Then thou hast naught to tell me of the other pris
oner — of Count Hugo de la Marche? Perchance thou
hast even never seen him," she said faintly, forgetting
everything but her great disappointment.

" Oh, yes, I had not told thee yet. That was the true
import of my mission — their love — I mean that of the
Princess for the Count's gen — "

" Love ! Their love ! Her love for him! God ! "
And the French Queen suddenly burst into a fit of
laughter, so uncontrollable, so mirthless, so fierce, that
the monk shrank back from her.

A bad messenger indeed had Eleanor chosen for her
mission, one who could thus, at the very outset of a
battle, become confused by an action that he should
have been prepared for ! In a conflict with a woman,
surprise should be banished from one's faculties. An
thony himself realized this, as he watched the subse
quent actions of the royal lady, though their cause had
even yet not penetrated to his brain, so filled was he
with his own intent.

Isabella of Angouleme was of the fibre of which we
make tragediennes to-day. Her sudden change from
that unnatural laughter to absolute calm would have
affected any audience accustomed to the attempted por
trayal of great feeling. Anthony marvelled silently as
she spoke again, quietly.

" Proceed. Tell me now of the loves of the right
royal Eleanor and that most gallant count, Hugh de la
Marche. Truly 'twould be a splendid match for him,
— Lord of Poictou ! "

" Hugh de la Marche," said Anthony, slowly. " Thou
hast misunderstood, O most puissant lady. It is not he,
but one of his gentlemen, the Sieur de la Bordelaye, who
loves the Princess, and whom she hath deigned to love."

304

"That was indeed well done. Thou art a valuable
envoy, Sir Monk," muttered the Queqn, under her
breath.

Anthony glanced up for an instant, failing to catch
her words, but noting the deepening frown upon her face
with apprehension. He made haste to continue.

" Bethink thee, madam, how weary hath been the time
that Eleanor, delicately born and reared as she is, hath
languished in such confinement. It was God's mercy
that sent love into her prison. But now, unless thy
grace be also added, I fear me that Eleanor's love will
be but the means of sending her from this earth into
the life beyond. She lies deathly ill, kept fast behind
bolt and bar, and forbidden even a whisper of courage
from him she loves. Think, then, on thine own love
and happiness, and look with pity on that maid who
hath craved thine intercession with the King. The
thought of thee in her prison brought hope; and
I, her confessor, knowing thy goodness, am here to
plead with thee to obtain her freedom from John. Upon
her unstained honor she pledges her royal word that no
attempt will ever be made by her against the throne of
England, nor will she ever consort with enemies of her
uncle, the King, whose faithful servant thou knowest me
also ever to have been. She bids me tell thee that, be
ing freed, she will immediately marry him whom she
loves, and will set off with him to the country of Poic-
tou, where she will henceforth dwell, untitled, as the
wife of a simple gentleman."

Here Anthony paused, glancing up at Isabella in the
hope of some word of interest or encouragement. None
came. The Queen sat gloomily silent, her expression
venomous, her eyes half-closed. At last, seeing that he
would not continue, she asked :

" And what thinkest thou of the plan of this pretty
babe?"

" Most highly do I honor and approve the desire of

of angouleme 305

the Princess," he answered quietly. " Assuredly, it
shows great power of love that she should wrish to de
scend from her estate, giving herself to him, and so
winning freedom for him as well as for herself. Ah,
madam ! Thou hast never lived a prisoner. Thou
knowest not, nor can words tell thee, the endless weari
ness of days and nights, the dragging out of minutes
which, in making a single hour, seem to have stretched
themselves into eternity. Thou knowest nothing of the
weariness of self, of the hopeless longing for the voice of
a friend, the madness of the continued silence about
thee. And think, lady, think of this maid, reared ten
derly, to laughter, and pleasure, and delicate work,
worthy of her rank and her beauty, — think how many
years of her poor life have drawn out in lonely misery
behind stone walls and bars of iron ! And now, at last,
when happiness seems to be within her grasp, — oh,
queen — woman — mother — bride — help her ! In the
name of holy Mary, I implore it ! "

He had forgotten himself. He had pleaded as she
herself would have done. His voice might have moved
an angel to tears. For a moment he dared to hope that
he had pierced through the iciness of the woman before
him. That he had impressed her, he perceived for him
self; but he could not know that it was only he, his
manner, his unselfishness, by which she had been moved.
She had not failed to note how glorified his dark face
had been by the intensity of his feeling. Perhaps she
had once wished for some one who would plead as well
for her. But his words had fallen upon a waste. He
had tried to move a lonely woman, against her love, in
behalf of another woman. No man possesses the power
to do that. In a few seconds of silence her suspicions
had again attained the ascendancy over her other self.

" And the Count de la Marche," she said, suddenly,
watching Anthony's face as a cat does a bird, "will
tire noble Count accompany his pretty pair of doves

20

306 ancanoni?et»

back to Poictou, under this same oath of everlasting
dulness?"

Anthony was disappointed. Why should she be
continually dragging the Count into the conversation,
to the exclusion of all else? Isabella saw the blood
rise to his cheeks as he came out of his abstraction.

" The Count de la Marche — i — is — " Anthony stam
mered and stopped. A sudden idea with regard to the
Queen and the Count had come to him. He remem
bered the incident of her letter, and the old tales, alive
when he was a boy at court, that Isabella had never
been able to ease her conscience with regard to De la
Marche, and that, old as he was, her former affection
for him as her prospective husband had not died.

The Queen saw all his confusion, and instantly the
suspicion within her was turned to conviction. She was
furiously angry. Slowly, in ferocious grace, she rose
again from her chair.

" The banquet hour approaches, Anthony," she said,
sweetly. " I would be excused now from longer con
verse concerning your amorous lady ; but, on the mor
row, at a half hour before noon, I grant you a further
audience here. Now a lackey will be sent to show you
to your apartment for the night."

Anthony bowed in silent dejection as she swept by
him in her white robes and left the room by a small
door which led into her private apartments. All hope
of succeeding in his mission had left him. He realized
now that no words of his had power to carry her
beyond herself. Her suspicion and her motives he
guessed pretty accurately, but was powerless to correct
either. She evidently believed that the real identity ot
Eleanor's lover was being kept from her; and that it
was De la Marche and not De la Bordelaye who was
to be freed that he might marry her. His only attain
ment had been to rouse Isabella's bitter jealousy. Her
pity was not reached. Anthony had tried to do all

3|gabella of angouUme 307

that could be done for Eleanor's sake. Failure was a
bitter mortification to him. It seemed that even the
victory over selfish love was to go unrewarded. The
weariness of the struggle with himself, and its woeful
futility, swept over him.

In the midst of these thoughts came the servant who
was to lead him to his own room. Moodily he followed
the man through a long hallway and into a small cell-
like place at the end of it. Within the chamber it was
damp and hot. No rushes lay upon the floor. There
was but one window, and that high above his head.
The little apartment was well furnished, however, with
bed, table, stool, steel mirror, and even water in an
earthen dish. His small bundle of clothing had also
been brought here. Anthony looked around slowly,
and then, as the lackey turned to go, tossed him a piece
of money. The man accepted it in high surprise, and
departed to inform his fellows that the Queen's messen
ger was no monk, but a disguised lord.

The distant sounds of life about the palace came in
a familiar murmur to Anthony's ears. It was easy to
judge the right moment at which to leave his room and
descend toward the banquet-hall. The way to this
great place he knew well, for long years ago he had
lived much in Winchester, as a member of the suite of
Salisbury. Like one moving in a dream he entered
upon the evening that was to be his last memory of the
life to which he had been born.

The banquet-hall of Winchester equalled that of
Windsor in size and in state, and Isabella's court filled
it very creditably. Anthony found himself in the midst
of a throng which held many familiar faces. Every
now and then he encountered the puzzled gaze of some
erstwhile friend ; but none there was able to recognize,
in this thin, dark-faced monk, the old-time, favorite
gallant of the court. Anthony made no attempt to
address any one. The pain of it would have been

308 cHncanoni?et)

unendurable to him. But his heart was heavy with
memory as he waited, with the rest, for the entrance of
the Queen. How should he have guessed that, while
he stood recalling his last days at Windsor, a horseman,
who bore in his pouch a small packet, sealed with royal
arms and addressed to a princess, was, at that moment,
galloping at full speed through the darkness, out of
Winchester, along the Bristol road?

Upon the appearance of Isabella the throng dispersed,
and each one, seeking out his or her seat, stood beside
it. Anthony, not knowing where to go, remained at one
side of the doorway and waited, quite at his ease, having
forgotten a certain speech of the Queen's that day.

John's consort, whom the historians love to describe
as meagrely and pitifully provided for in the matter of
clothing, was clad in a richly woven robe of sapphire
blue, glittering with gems, girdled and coifed with
silver, while from her head fell a veil of delicate tissue.
She was attended by her French minstrels, and followed
by six ladies of honor. Anthony, whose eyes were
fixed upon the regal form of this unpopular woman,
failed to notice her attendants. Isabella's glance soon
fell upon the monk. She was in a rather better humor
than when he had seen her last, and deigned to smile
slightly wrhen she motioned him to come to her. There
was something malicious in her voice, however, as,
extending her hand for his lips, she swiftly turned her
head and called, —

" Helene ! "

Anthony started violently. Before his eyes passed a
swift vision of a delicate, golden-haired girl, clad in
garments of pallid green, with one scarlet rose at
her breast. Then he was bowing before a trembling
woman, a woman faded and old — old enough to have
been that fair girl's ancestress. Helene de Ravaillac,
she who had turned upon him so soullessly in his grief,
— was this indeed the same?

of attfiouleme s°9

And mademoiselle was asking herself that very ques
tion concerning the sad-eyed monk before her. Could
he ever have been the charming boy whom she so long
and bitterly had mourned ? He seemed no more like
that than was Isabella of England the fair and innocent
girl whom John had so fiercely wooed and so reck
lessly won.

" Anthony Fitz-Hubert, wilt conduct Mademoiselle de
Ravaillac to the royal table?" came the cool, hateful
voice of the Queen, who was smiling underneath her
eyelids at the apparent terror of her lady. She was,
however, scarcely prepared for the calmness with which
the monk obeyed her command. Anthony had been
brought back to himself by anger at the Queen's public
use of his surname. At this time and place her thought
lessness cut him sharply. Helene, after the first mo
ment, emulated him. She was roused into a semblance
of self-control by a quick series of whispers and glances
which was making the round of the tables.

Isabella dined at a small table, surrounded by a famil
iar few. Changes in this favored company were nightly
made, and guests of title were frequently honored by
being given a place at it during their stay at the castle.
But never before, within the memory of those present,
had such an invitation been extended to a common Bene
dictine monk, whose rightful place was at the third table,
just below the Queen's Guard and just above the salt.
Anthony, however, conducted himself too faultlessly for
the comments to be audible, and before the entrance of
the comfits he had been nearly forgotten.

As regarded the relations of the monk and her maid
of honor, the banquet passed off more smoothly than
the Queen could have wished. Helene managed to
keep herself under unusual control; and Anthony, to
be quite honest, felt no emotion whatever after the first
shock of surprise. Isabella's idea of an amusing bit of
byplay came to naught; and she was forced to content

herself with the audacious remarks of the Earl of Win-
ton, who had been forgiven his graceless behavior of
the afternoon, and was reinstated into favor and the
chair beside the Queen. The meal did not last as long
as it would had a man been presiding over it. It was
not customary, even in those days, for ladies to linger
over their wine, amid singing and buffoonery, unless
some royal gentleman or the head of the household
were present to countenance the rudeness; and even
then the women always had the privilege of retiring if
they wished. Thus to-night, when the final Gratias Deo
had been given by one of the regular priests, the entire
court adjourned to the terraces of the castle to walk
there for an hour in the cool of the evening.

There was no moon, and the turf was lighted only by
the stars and the faint glow from the lights within the
palace. The company immediately broke up into groups
of four or five, or single pairs, and began slowly to pace
up and down the broad stretch of lawns. Anthony and
mademoiselle had tried hard to escape, alike from each
other and from the throng. This, however, the Queen
would not permit. A sharp word from her forced the
monk to offer his arm to Helene, and so, resigning them
selves to their painful position, they prepared to go through
the evening. Mademoiselle clung to him silently as he
began to walk, with agitated rapidity, up and down the
long, dusky terrace, edging gradually farther and farther
away from the company, until their course was clear.
Then the woman herself spoke, though her voice was
far from steady : —

" Anthony, art thinking of the last time that we two
stood together upon a terrace, i' the evening?"

"I had not just now been thinking of it; but I
remember, mademoiselle."

He felt her hand tremble a little. " I wonder if memory
is bitter to thee," she murmured, with sad reflectiveness,
more to herself than to him.

3!$al>eUa of angouleme 311

"It hath been bitterly cruel throughout the last
years."

" Ah ! It cannot have been to thee what it hath to
me," she said, and he heard the tears in her tone.

" I know not, I know not. Thou hadst remorse. I
was forgot."

" Nay, Anthony'! Not forgot ! Never forgot ! Night
and day, throughout the years, the thought of thee hath
tortured my heart, until I have grown old under it."

He glanced meditatively down at her in the gloaming,
and contemplated her as she was now : the faded eyes,
the face which bore a look of long-restrained sorrow,
the hair that had lost its glint, but that still curled be
neath its close coif. He saw how thin she was, and how
she had lost the vivacity that had been the charm of
her youth. Yet in her face there was something of a
beauty that it had formerly lacked, an expression that
thoughtful people would not soon forget. It was the
mark of repentance, of added gentleness, of patient
endurance. And there and then the monk forgave
her everything. Neither spoke much ; but each felt
a change of sympathy toward the other.

" It grows late," he said, at last. " I perceive that
the Queen hath disappeared. Shall we within? You
may be needed."

" My turn at the disrobing is not to-night. I shall
not be sought. Stay yet a moment, I beg. Ere thou
go in I would tell thee a resolve, a wish of mine. Thou
knowest we shall not meet thus again."

" Speak on, then," he answered, gently.

" Thou hast seen how old I am become, in face and
in feeling. Surely, then, thou must also see that the
court is no longer a fit abiding-place for me. All my
life have I lived at courts, save in earliest childhood,
when my home was in Normandy. France ! France !
How always doth my heart turn back to thee ! When
I was young men called me beautiful, and I was to have

312

been married more than once. But always, out of wil-
fulness, methinks, I did refuse at last. And then thou
earnest. I know now, Anthony, how I did love thee.
Thou didst think that I treated thee shamefully upon
that last night. But it was only that my heart was half
broken, and I could not bear the thought of what was
to come to me without thee. After thou hadst gone I
never again thought of marrying. T is unmaidenly,
perchance, to tell thee all this ; but methinks we both
are old enow to hear it. And here my life hath been
hard, and weary, and long. The Queen is pitiless in
mockery, and spares me not when she would gibe at
age and faded beauty. I have endured it too long.
At last my resolve hath been reached. Twill not be
opposed, I ween. I would seek a life of quiet piety,
where I might be at rest. Anthony, I have resolved to
take the veil."

The monk heard her speech with a strange feeling at
his heart. At her last words he drew a quick, sharp
breath. Still, for some moments, he did not speak.
Mademoiselle waited anxiously. Though his opinion
need make no actual difference in her desire, she still
looked for his words as though her fate hung upon
them.

" No, Helene," he said at last, gravely. " I beg of
you, by all the trust that you hold in God the Father,
to renounce that wish. Believe me you know not of
what you speak; you know not what you would do."
He stopped, hesitating.

" But, Anthony, I have known many ladies who have
done this very thing. 'T is by no means uncommon."

" Many have done it, mademoiselle ; but, tell me,
hast ever seen one of them after she became a nun?
Knowest thou how they liked the life ? "

" Nay," she said, thoughtfully.

" Accept' my word, then. Remember that I am a
monk, and that I have suffered ; — how much, none

31gabclla of 3ngouUme 313

can ever know. I implore thee to believe me and to
abandon thy wish."

" Nay ; I cannot, I will not live here longer ! Didst
thou not see how they insulted me to-night? They
gave — " she stopped short, in confusion.

Anthony drew away from her slightly. "They gave
thee a monk for comrade at the banquet," he said,
slowly.

In the darkness her pale cheeks flushed crimson. For
the moment she could not answer.

" In thy France, mademoiselle, hast any, living, of thy
blood, or is there any who would care for thee?"

" There is my father," she answered. " Could I but
return to him he might provide for — the remainder of
my days. He is not so old a man. But our family is
no wealthy one. Our revenues are diminished, our
manor scarce kept up. It would be a useless hope.
The money for such a journey and the escort which
would have to attend me could not be provided. I live
here on the charity of Isabella ; and, so long as I re
main thus, must ever be subject to her ill-humors and
her scorn. Nay, Anthony, hinder me not, I do implore
thee. A nunnery would be a grateful refuge."

" But Helene, suppose — suppose the Queen should
help thee to thy father's house? What then?"

" Some queens, perchance, might do such things.
But Isabella ! — Has thy monkery made thee forgetful,
Anthony?"

" Nay, mademoiselle, I forget nothing; least of all
my position. I remember that I am no man, but one
of a brotherhood vowed to humility and to poverty.
As thou shouldst know, charity is the greatest privilege
of the Church ; and to such of her children as are in
affliction she is bound to give whatever aid, material or
spiritual, they may require. For such things as these,
Helene, I possess money in plenty, — ay, twenty times
more than thou wouldst need for such a journey. Wilt

314 <Uncanonf?eti

accept, from my hand, in the name of the Church, what
soever thou mayest need to enable thee to return to
thine own country and thy father?"

For a moment, in the darkness, she stared up at his
shadowy face in utter silence. Then, swiftly withdraw
ing her hand from his strong grasp, she burst into tears.
The passion of grief was short-lived, but violent. It was
not often that she was allowed the comfort of weeping.
The monk stood over her helplessly until she once
more began to regain her self-control. Then, again, as
she spoke, he took her hands in his.

" Forgive me, Anthony, forgive me. I should have
told thee naught. I did not guess that thou hadst gold.
Nay, say no more. I should hate myself if I took it
from thee."

" Helene, thou dost hurt me, speaking so. The gold is
thine. Have I not told thee that I am vowed to charity
as a monk, that all my worldly goods are but part of
the Church? To-morrow I shall make bold to come
and give it thee with mine own hand. Thank me not,
for I do but my duty. — Now, indeed, it were time that
we re-entered the castle. Come, rise. Verily, made
moiselle, this will not endure. There, that is better.
Behold, we are the last to linger here, and there are
not many lights in the windows above. Now, thou 'rt
better."

Overcome at last by the realization of her great need
of aid, the feeling that his words regarding a nunnery
were true, and the great longing for home that was
within her heart, the poor woman had yielded to his offer
at last; and, feeling herself miserably weak, had sunk
at his feet, overcome with gratitude. Anthony raised
her up, and, still supporting her bodily, led her from
the deserted terraces and into the silent castle. Here,
with only a glance and a half-smile, they parted for the
night. On reaching his room Anthony carefully took
from his bundle the gold concerning which Philip had

of angowlente 315

questioned him, with which, indeed, he was amply sup
plied ; and, having counted it carefully, placed all but a
single piece within a leathern purse, and put it beneath
his pillow. Then, with a human affection once more
burning at his heart, he laid him down upon his bed and
closed his tired eyes.

Every monk of any reputable order was firmly
pledged to keep either monastic or canonical hours
when outside his cloister. And Anthony, it must be
admitted, was, in this, as in many other respects, not a
monk worthy the name. It was almost the hour for
matins before he slept, and before a stray sunbeam
stroking his face had fairly roused him, tierce should
have been well begun at Glastonbury. Glastonbury,
however, was fifty miles away, and these negligent sins
of his Anthony scarce thought of, himself, and much
less ever confessed in the chapter. This morning he
prayed not at all, but donned his day-clothes with some
haste, and then once more wrapped up his bundle ; he
was not to sleep a second night at Winchester. Finally,
taking his purse into his hand, he sought the dining-
room, where most of the court had already broken fast.
Great quantities of food still stood upon the tables, how
ever, and Anthony ate what he wished. Rising at last
from his place he loitered a little about the great room,
wondering when it might be time for his second audience
with the Queen. Just as he was turning toward the
doorway a page, running at full speed, entered. Upon
seeing the monk he uttered an exclamation.

" Ods blood, holy one, but I have had a hunt for
thee ! Albeit I might readily enow have guessed where
I should find thee. A Benedictine hath never so much
of prayer that he forgetteth when to eat, eh, brother ? "
And the youth laughed merrily.

This manner of wit was by no means novel to An
thony, but he relished it none the better on that account.
His reply was curt. "What would you of me, varlet?"

316

"'Varlet,' to me, thou monk ! " flashed out the youth.
" I would have thee to know, insolent one, that I
am — "

" Villain ! Thine errand ! " repeated Anthony, in a
tone of contempt, though inwardly he was wondering
at himself, and at the fact that it was still possible for
his vanity to be so easily wounded.

With sulky amazement the boy glared at him, but,
remembering that it was Isabella herself whom this
monk had sought at Winchester, he feared to offer any
further explanation of his lofty birth. "The Queen
bade me say that she awaits— " he had begun; but,
ere the sentence was finished, Anthony had turned
upon his heel and walked rapidly from the room.
" Verily, verily/' remarked the page to the air, " this
monk behaveth strangely like unto a lord ! "

Isabella, not long out of bed, and with toilet just
finished, lay back upon her couch in the room where
Eleanor's envoy had first seen her. The late audi
ence granted on the previous night to the Earl of Win-
ton had resulted this morning in a violent headache
and a most execrable humor on the part of the royal
lady. She awaited the coming of the monk with ex
treme impatience. In some way the very thought of his
presence in the castle irritated her. She wished to be
free from all possibility of again encountering the glit
ter of those deep eyes, which seemed, somehow, to her
nervous imagination, to be able to pierce whatever
mask she chose to don, and, breaking through her
every pretence, reach to the very heart of all her frivol
ity and deceit. The more that she thought upon the
matter, the more impatient did she grow to have him
gone. When he finally entered the room where she
lay, she had awaited his coming for a full fifteen min
utes, whereby the pleasance of her mood was not
greatly increased.

" Good-morrow, your holiness. Shall I rise and

of angouleme 31?

courtesy before you? I do perceive that the Church
hath greatly grown in importance of late, when the
lowest of its disciples can make the Queen of England
wait his pleasure."

Anthony's brows twitched up a little, but he addressed
her with marked respect : " Pardon me, madam, I beg.
Doubtless I did mistake the hour of audience granted
me."

Isabella made a grimace that was supposed to do duty
for a smile. Her eyes narrowed a little, and while her
words were hardly in themselves offensive, her tone was
not easy to be borne. " Well, now that thou 'rt come,
hast more, I doubt not, of those pretty pleas to put
forth for thy — lady ? "

" If thou wilt listen, madam. But I would not tire
thee," he answered, wearily.

" Well, I will not listen, this morning, Sir Monk. In
stead thou must hear me ; and I, having not overmuch
to say, will make thine audience so short that thou wilt
have time to press another dozen of kisses upon Helene
de Ravaillac's hands or lips ere thou depart.

" In the matter of thine errand here I have been won
drous quick at decision. But yester even, ere the ban
quet, I framed my answer to thy artful plea. By now,
Anthony Fitz-Hubert, my messenger should be half-way
to Bristol, with my greeting to the royal Eleanor of
Brittany, as thou hast rightly styled her, granddaughter
to Eleanor of Aquitaine, and niece to my husband,
John of England. Now, monk, what sayest thou to my
forethought."

A long, slow smile stretched itself over Isabella's
face as she saw the sudden pallor that overspread
Anthony's cheeks. She knew that at his heart lay
terror of what she might have done. After a moment
of struggle with himself he commanded his voice, and,
bowing before her, spoke his farewell.

" I can but compliment your speed in action, madam,

318

and so have the honor to thank you for your attention
to me and to the Princess. I must depart immediately
from the palace ; but, ere I leave, let me proclaim my
gratitude for your royal hospitality, and, with all humil
ity, myself your most humble servitor."

The Queen acknowledged this regular formula with
her hand for him to kiss ; and so he retreated from the
room.

Thus the final audience was ended. Anthony turned
from the presence of the Queen, sick with dread. He
dared not even conjecture the import of the message
which it would now be impossible to keep from
Eleanor's eyes. But one thing lay within his power
to do. He must vindicate himself, if it were pos
sible, with Eleanor. He must reach Bristol as soon
as human power and his horse's speed could get him
there. As he hastened toward his room he met many
people in the corridors of the castle; but, until he
found her standing scarce ten paces from him in the
lower hall, never a thought of mademoiselle entered his
head. Then, catching the mute appeal of her eyes, he
recollected the gold. Approaching her he quietly
pressed the purse into her passive hand. The words
of gratitude that she poured out to him he scarcely
heeded. Not until an hour later, when he was racing
on horseback through the streets of the city, did he
realize that the phrase which was ringing through his
brain had been spoken by her: " May God's grace be
with thee, Anthony, forever and forever!" Then, for
the space of a few minutes, his thoughts did turn to her,
poor woman, and he knew that he was glad to have
saved her from the life of a nun. They never met
again, these two. But for many years thereafter, from
a certain beetling old castle in the battlefield of France,
there daily rose a fervent prayer for the happiness of
Hubert Walter's son. Perhaps, at the end, these pleas,
futile while their object lived, were taken all together,

of angouleme 319

and won heaven after death for an heretical and disloyal
monk.

It was the noon of August sixth, five days after he
had last left it, when Anthony rode again into the court
yard of Bristol Castle. Horse and rider alike were
spent. The animal, wet With foam, stumbled with ex
haustion. The man was dizzy and sick with long riding,
little food, and the intense heat. He had been dreading
so much that, when he actually reached his destination,
his fears were deadened. Drawing rein at last, and
giving the poor steed into John Norman's care, he
hastened into the castle, in which the air seemed chilly,
and tottered with difficulty up the narrow stairs that led
to Eleanor's apartments. Not daring to picture the
scene which probably awaited him, he knocked quickly
at the well-known door.

Mary opened it. On seeing the monk she uttered a
little cry; but, though he minutely scanned her face,
Anthony could find in it no expression of sorrow or
pity; — nothing but pleasure, joy. The next moment
he saw Eleanor, standing just beyond the maid, quite
still, pale, yet with an exquisite smile upon her face, and
both hands held out to him.

" My friend — my friend ! " she faltered, and there
were tears in her eyes.

Anthony, amazed and still incredulous, came slowly
toward her, his head bent. " Princess, I tried — for thy
sake — indeed I tried. Blame me not, I implore," he
said, thickly.

" Blame thee ! " she echoed, wondering. " How
shouldst thou say that? All day have I waited to bless
thee ! Though thou couldst not obtain all that I had
dared to ask, yet what I have gained is precious far
beyond my deserving. And how shall I thank thee for
it all?"

"What mean you?"

"Why, hast not seen the Queen's letter? I had

320

wished to ask thee somewhat concerning it. I under
stand naught of what she says of the Count de
la — "

" Let me see the letter, quickly, I beg, madam."
She took it at once from the bosom of her dress and
handed it to him in silence.

To the noble and right royal Eleanor, hight Princess of
Bretagne, Granddaughter to Eleanor of Aquitaine, and
Niece to King John of England :

Thy envoy, the monk Anthony Fitz-Hubert, hath faithfully
done thy bidding and made ardent plea for the welfare of
thee and of thy lover, whosoe'er he may be. Freedom, it
lies not in my power to give. But so hath this imploring
touched my pity, that I grant full permission to a princess to
hold whatsoever communication she shall choose, as often as
she choose, with the Sieur Louis de la Bordelaye, if indeed
such a person doth exist.

But hereby let it be remembered, else shall it cost both
dear, that thou art never, by word, look, or deed, in any
manner, time, or place, to hold converse with Count Hugh de
la Marche, Lord of Poictou, at present a prisoner in Bristol
keep. Look to it that thou obeyest well this word.

So greets you,

ISABELLE D'ANGOULEME.

As Anthony slowly perused this singular letter, all
the irony, malice, and jealousy of its conception was so
glaringly presented to his understanding that he was
forced to marvel at Eleanor's innocent simplicity re
garding it. But when he looked at her again, and
saw the beauty of happiness in her face, his own
eyes grew dim with agony. His mission had been
successful.

"And hast thou seen the Sieur Louis yet?" asked
the monk.

Mary drew a sharp breath at the question, but Anthony
never noticed that she speedily left the room to avoid

3j£iabella of angouletne 321

crying out in very pity for him at Eleanor's low
reply.

" He hath been with me all the morning," she said,
drooping her head a little way that he might not see
the pink flush that memory sent into her transparent
cheeks.

21

CHAPTER XVIII
"AVE! COLOR VINI CLARI!"

ANTHONY, now so long accustomed to the pas
sive life of the monastery, had been nearly
prostrated, physically, by his journey, the
strong excitement of his stay at Winchester, and the
rapid return to Bristol in the August heat. The Prin
cess as well as Mary noticed the unusual flush upon
his face, the effort of his steps, and the languor in his
manner. He himself, remembering the probable state
of Glastonbury, made no objections to stopping over
night and through half the next day at the castle. At
noon he was summoned to the keep, to confess, and
converse with, the Count and his comrades. Here he
underwent the pain of a few grateful and sincere words
of appreciation from De la Bordelaye; and the after
noon was waning ere he could start upon his home
ward road. Eleanor's farewell, and her new manner
of affection toward him, cut him to the quick; but
Mary's grave smile and glance of sympathy went
totally unfathomed. At last he was free to go. While
he was crossing the drawbridge, however, there came
to him, suddenly, in his abstraction, the memory of
the Falcon Inn, and the fact that he had promised to
be there on this evening or the next. So he turned
his horse's steps down through the city streets, and
Mary, watching the white hillside road for a last
glimpse of his departing figure, wondered that the
darkness came and still he had not passed.

Arrived at the inn the monk found the public room
occupied by a throng of idlers who would scarcely take

! Color H>inf Clarfr 323

their departure before sunset. He retired upstairs at
once, therefore, to the small room that was always
kept at his service; and, being of no mind for three
hours of solitude, donned his secular dress and cap,
descended, left the inn by the rear door, and entered
again at the front like a new-comer. Stranger to all, as
he was, the young men in the place greeted him civilly
as a possible companion, after having examined studi
ously the cut of his garment. This, being of court
make, was of a fashion inimitable by the countrymen,
and, though it was now considerably more than three
years old, was still perfectly in the style of those tran
quil days. Thus Anthony, forcing himself to forget
his trouble for a little, really enjoyed the afternoon of
freedom, albeit his every move was attended with a
spice of danger, lest possibly his hat should fall off
and reveal his shaven head. No lady, however,
entered the inn, and there was never an occasion for a
scuffle. Talk ran upon many a good sporting subject,
and the home-brews flowed generously, till at length
the shadows of evening fell athwart the crooked little
streets, and one by one the young men and the soldiers
arose and went their way, leaving the monk at last
sitting alone over a table, with his thoughts come back
to him, and his head resting on his hand.

Now the great doors were closed and barred by the
landlord, to whose occasional eccentricities in this
line Bristol was becoming accustomed. Ever since
Anthony's arrival, Martin's son had been out, hurry
ing from house to house of those inhabited by the
usual congregation, to inform the people of the com
ing of their monk. Gladly did they all receive the
summons; and by eight o'clock of the evening, when
it was as yet only twilight, a goodly company had
assembled in the place which they had come to look
upon as they once had regarded the vast spaces of St.
Peter's Cathedral.

324 2Jncanoni?et>

Since the first meetings the number of the congre
gation had greatly increased. It was curious, consid
ering how little effort had been made to bring new
converts hither, because of the danger of it all, how,
none the less, men instinctively sought out and found,
here, their kind and their religious home. By this
time, then, new faces were no novelty to Anthony.
To-night, as ever, he talked to them of the injustice
and malpractices in the Romish Church, and exposed
the weakness and the mercilessness of the creed of
Augustine, from whose writings he read, and trans
lated. Then he told of undeniable truths, and of the
beauties of individual thought and belief, much after
the manner of a Neoplatonist. His people listened
eagerly. Once started, as they had been, so long ago,
upon the daring idea of the thorough exposition of the
old religion, none could hear enough of its false .dog
mas, its contradictions, its unholy ambitions, and its
injustice. By the Interdict which had been laid on
England for the punishment of a single man, they, it
seemed, were to be deprived of their very souls. Now
they exclaimed in horror at the memory of their former
belief. Nevertheless, Anthony could not help some
times thinking that it was a still-living spark of doubt
and dread that made them desire so often to hear his
logic decry confession and absolution as means of
salvation, and refute the theory of eternal damnation.
The little service being concluded with prayer, im
promptu and heartfelt, on the part of the monk at
least, they all thronged about him, each eager for a
word spoken to himself alone. They gave to Anthony
a kind of fanatical devotion, born, though he did not
guess it, of the transfigured strength of his face when
he spoke, of the tones- of his unusual voice, and of the
mind which had had the initial power to probe into
those questions, doubts, and beliefs which it was now
giving forth to them.

«at>e! Color iMm Clartr 325

Late at night Anthony was once more upon the
road to the abbey, and at three o'clock in the morning
he stood before its gates. He had ridden hard, and
his animal was panting under him. Upon his ride the
thought of the monastic quiet and rest before him had,
for the first time in his existence as a monk, been
pleasant. Now, however, as he called loudly for the
lodge-keeper, a sudden revulsion of feeling came, for
he remembered what Glastonbury was. There was
no answer to his calling. The windows of the lodge
continued dark. Anthony dismounted at last, and
felt his way to the gates. They were unlocked.
Small care had the abbey to-night! One push, and
the way was clear before him.

In the midst of the blackness, for the skies were
dark with coming dawn, the monk, leading his horse,
stumbled his way to the stables. These presented an
unwonted spectacle. They were crowded with horses
of all sorts, sizes, and conditions, twenty or twenty-five
more than usual being visible by the dull light of the
lantern. Ousting one of the new-comers from its place,
Anthony put his own steed into a stall, and, not seek
ing for a groom, rubbed it down himself, and gave it
as much fodder as was to be found. Then,. guided by a
faint light that shone from one of the lower windows,
he started back toward the entrance of the abbey.
Before he reached the door of Saint Joseph's chapel
a noise came to his ears. It grew louder and louder
as he approached. When he stood inside the vestib-
ulum he could distinguish shrieks of laughter and
some snatches of song that were being sung by high,
hoarse voices. On the threshold he hesitated. The
sounds were coming to him across the cloister, from
the refectory. At length he made his way down the
corridor, past the day-room, clown the long halls that
led by the visitors' apartments, through the great,
unfinished assembly-room, across the open court, and,

326

finally, into the lavatories, in whose doorway was
framed the scene in the refectory. Though Anthony
was totally unaware of it, one person in that bedlam
saw, and recognized, the outline of his form. And
after that chance look Anthony was not alone.

As the new-comer first beheld them, all the company,
men and women, were just beginning a chorus. It
was a song that he had heard before. Being old in the
monasteries it had once, by chance, crept out among
the laity, and shortly travelled the length and breadth
of the kingdom, translated into French or English by
those who did not appreciate the Latin. It was a kind of
parody, profane enough, upon the " O Sanctissime ! "

Anthony heard the ugly sounds and the uglier words
with disgust in his face, and a kind of savage anger,
which had always been natural to him at any such
sight, in his heart. But never, even in his wild youth
at the different courts of France and England, had
he known of a debauch like this. There was a fero
cious barbarity, an abandonment about it, that told
of the unnatural repression of every human feeling
that ordinarily dominated the lives of the men who
were taking part in this revelry. Fitz-Hubert turned,
wearily, from the scene of riot and disorder, and made
his way back to the scriptorium. He was closely
followed by one who had been in that room, but was
neither too intoxicated to think, nor popular enough
with his companions to be missed. It was David
Franklin, the precentor.

To reach the scriptorium one had to pass through
the day-room, and in both of these apartments dim
lights burned. At first Anthony looked in vain for
his friend, whom he had thought to find at work. The
scriptorium was empty. When he stepped again into
the other room a dark figure glided behind him, and
drew itself hurriedly back of the doorway, barely in
time to escape his notice. Then Anthony's eyes fell

Color t£ini Clari!" 327

upon a picture that softened their angry light and
melted the harshness from his face.

In a corner of the day-room, between the jutting
fireplace and the west wall, with the faint light fall
ing upon the form which was wrapped in a coarse
blanket, lay Philip, asleep. His face was like chiselled
marble. Only his eyelids were faintly tinged with
color, and the veins in his temples were defined in
a sharp blue. The shimmering hair which circled
his tonsure had been pushed back from the fair fore
head as if by the passing of one of the exquisite hands
which he had flung behind his head, palm upward,
upon the floor. His right hand lay upon his breast.
Upon his thin cheeks, and under the long, brown
lashes, lay three or four crystalline tears, undried.
He had shed them in his sleep.

For a long moment Anthony — and that other —
gazed upon the recumbent figure. Then Fitz-Hubert
knelt by the sleeper's side, and, with a hand that shook
a little, from weariness, perhaps, wiped the drops from
the boyish face. The very gentleness of the touch
roused Philip. He shuddered, and then his dark blue
eyes, in which lay a dread that had lingered there for
a week past, flew open. The next instant there was a
deep cry of joy.

"Anthony! At last!"

"At last, Philip," replied the friend, tenderly.

For a moment, then, they did not move, but gazed
into each other's faces, reading, silently. Then
Philip rose. He listened for an instant to the noise
that came without cessation from the distant refectory,
and then said, wearily, with a quiver in his voice: —

" Sit you here. I will bring some refreshment for
us both."

Anthony quickly laid a hand upon his arm. "Nay,
nay, Philip. Thou canst not go thither. I need
nothing."

328

Philip shook his head. "I go to the kitchen of
the novices. I need not even pass the refectory.
Wait."

While the young monk had been speaking David"
Franklin, hastily and daringly, slipped through the
day-room and into the scriptorium beyond. Once
there he seated himself in such a position that he
could hear every word and see every move made by
the two whom he had set himself to watch.

When Philip was gone, Anthony looked about him.
Seeing an unlit lantern standing upon the floor near
the chimney, he lighted the candle in it at the flame
of the one already burning. This made the room quite
passably bright. Then the monk seated himself by
the table, and, in order to keep awake until Philip
should return with food, he picked up a manuscript
that lay thereon, and began to read.

Philip was not away long. He came back, bearing
in his hands a wooden tray upon which stood a loaf of
wheaten bread, a cold boiled fowl, a dozen purple
plums, and a great jug of ale. Anthony looked approv
ingly upon the collation.

" In good sooth, Philip, I had not until now guessed
mine own hunger. Come, let us eat. I have ridden
a long way since the supper hour."

" I also am hungry, now that thou art here to bear
me company," responded the other, as he set the
dishes out upon the table.

Drawing up their stools side by side, they began
with great good-will upon the meal, talking together
as they did so. Between them there was no restraint
of action or thought; yet for some time the con
tinuous flow of sounds from the direction of the
refectory distracted their attention sufficiently from
themselves to make the concealed listener fear that he
was, after all, to hear none of those things which he
had hoped to discover. Anthony ate with appetite,

i Color iMni Clad!" 329

the simple viands being quite to his taste. Philip
was more listless, but partook of the bread and
fruit, of which he was very fond. The elder monk,
who knew Philip's hyper-sensibility to all forms of
grossness as did no one else in the abbey, sympatheti
cally studied the pallor of the young face, and the
painful way in which his head continually dropped,
and his eyes sought the plate.

" What a harbor for purity must Glastonbury have
been during the past week," thought Anthony. " Little
wonder that he is spiritless ! Methinks any other
would long ago have descended into that hell out of
sheer loneliness." Then he said, aloud:

"Canst guess how much longer -this will last,
Philip?"

The young fellow raised his head, and lifted his
eyes mournfully to his companion's face. "There can
be no sure prophecy; but I hope that 'tis now nearly
at an end. I had, this morn, a little glimpse of
Richard Friendleighe. He looked more weary e'en
than I felt. Harold returns now in three days; and I
trust that by that time it — it — order will be restored,
and this time of sin repented."

"God grant it," returned the other, dryly. Then he
ventured to ask again, with great gentleness, "It hath
been a dreary week for thee, Philip? "

For a moment the child-monk could make no answer.
His lips trembled. At last, with an effort, he raised
his voice: "Ere thou earnest here, Anthony, I used to
think this period of the year a special hardship given
me to endure, because I was ever so contented with my
life. Now — now that Mary hath departed, I am often
lonely. Thou, whom I do love, hast a work of thine
own that is far beyond me. Therefore, nowadays, I
grieve much when alone; and this time of sorrow is
not easily to be borne."

At the mention of Mary and of Anthony's "work"

33°

the spy pricked up his ears. For the moment, how
ever, he was still disappointed.

" I am to stay now for a month, again, as usual,
Philip. I warrant that i' the end thou 'It have enough
of me."

"There could not be too much. But now, — tell
me of the journey, how it hath resulted with thee, and
its cause. 'Twas to Winchester thou didst go. Hast
seen there my Lord Bishop, Peter de Rupibus? "

"Nay. My mission was to the Queen, and I lodged
in the palace. Half of all went right with me, and
half wrong. And which be wrong and which right, or
whether, mayhap, all was well, I know not. Verily,
verily, Philip, affairs take curious turns unto them
selves ofttimes. "

Anthony had not betrayed a hint of feeling in his
tone, and his friend was sorely puzzled. "'Twas for
the Princess thou didst go? "

"Ay," said Anthony, defiantly throwing back his
head, and not changing his tone, — "ay, for Madam
Eleanor and her lover."

"Her lover!"

"The Sieur Louis de la Bordelaye, of the suite of
Hugh, Count de la Marche, — the other prisoner, thou
knowest."

Philip examined the other's face anxiously. An
thony returned the look in some abstraction, and was
startled when Philip ventured the remark, —

"Verily that was hard for thee, my brother."

"Hard? How?"

" Nay, nay. Pardon if I have said overmuch. I
will go no further."

" Say what thou wilt. Thou 'canst not go too far
with me, friend."

Philip hesitated still for an instant, then ventured,
slowly, " I had sometimes thought the Princess Eleanor
dear to thee."

Color mni Clari ' 33'

"It is true," was the reply. "More dearly than
life, or heaven, or self do I love her; more than the
loss of my soul I fear her unhappiness; I endure more
than the torture of the rack when I see her; and yet
more sweet than Paradise is the power to obey her
slightest wish. —What, then, Philip?"

If Philip was astounded at this open confession, he
was not more so than David Franklin, who had been
almost touched by the simple earnestness of the
avowal. Possibly there was a hidden romance in his
ugly little nature, for certainly, through several
seconds, he did battle hotly with himself, behind the
door of the scriptorium, on the point whether such
madness about a princess of the blood was not, under
the circumstances, admirable. Anthony, however,
was awaiting Philip's answer. It came.

" But doth it not cut thee to the heart to know that
madam hath a lover? Were it my love, methinks the
very life would be torn out of me through jealousy."

In the darkness Franklin nodded a vehement approval.

"Jealousy, Philip?" And now Anthony was to
prove the power of his self-control. "Jealousy, say
you? And how should I, a bastard monk, dare so to lift
my thought to her? Why, man, I am a slave! I am
a slave ! I forget not that ; and so I cannot suffer as
I would had my father given me a humbler and an
honester birth."

"He lies," thought Franklin, for Anthony's mean
ing was beyond him now. "He lies. No man but
would feel jealousy, an his love had reached such a
pass. He is a hypocrite."

Philip himself was puzzled here. Anthony's bitter
irony was lost to him, and he could not understand
the courage that should make any man speak so about
the great passion of his life. He decided, then, to
waive that point for the moment.

" Didst see the Queen herself? " he asked.

332

" I had the honor of two audiences with her."
"And, doubtless, sith Eleanor is her niece, she
was gracious with thee?"

"Truly, she was most kind, doing that very thing
which pleased the Princess most." And by Anthony's
smile you could tell nothing.

At last Philip was hurt. He hated to be put off
with incomprehensible indifference, or, worse still,
mockery, at every turn. His face told this. Rising,
in silence, he went over to the fireplace, and stood
there, with shoulders bent, gazing into the great
blackness. Loudly to his ears came the distant sounds
of drunken mirth. Philip felt a hand upon his
shoulder. Turning, he saw that his friend's face was
very near to his, and that there was upon it an expres
sion of tenderness and affection.

"Philip, 'tis all unwittingly that I have distressed
thee. But knowest thou not that there be some things
in a man's life which he cannot tell, even to his
brother? And what we have been talking of is some
thing that I do not easily bear. Now let us speak of
other things, — of Mary, an thou wilt."

Philip's eyes glistened a little, and his face took on
the expression of the dreamer. "Mary," he said.
"Mary! Thou hast seen her?"
"But to-day."

"And hath she forgot me, Anthony, think you?"
"Nay, Philip. Surely not. Surely not."
" Hath — hath she ever spoken of me ? "
"Ah, yes, and bids me carry memory of her to thee;
but it seems that, selfishly, I do forget to do so."
Though Anthony did not hesitate over it, this was
a deliberate lie. Afterwards there came to him a
little wonder at the thought that, of all the times
he had been at Bristol Castle, the girl had never
proffered a single question concerning her old-time
instructor and companion of the vale of Avalon.

Color i&ini Clati!" 333

At the answer Philip's eyes had lighted with pleas
ure, but he made no reply for some moments. When
he did speak it was with rapidity, and in a voice more
impassioned than Anthony had ever before heard him
use.

"Anthony, thou dost love a woman. Greatly do I
rejoice at thought of it, for now, at last, thou canst
understand somewhat of my feeling, however different
our loves may be. Thou knowest how Mary, my Lady
of the Fields, was all my life. It was thou who took'st
her from me. — Nay, speak not " (Anthony had raised
his hand). "I know for what purpose it was done, and
I honor thee for it. But hast thou ever thought that
though three endless years have passed since mine
eyes did rest upon her face, yet the image of her in
my heart hath never faded? I love her to-day more
deeply, I think, than in the olden times when I was
most with her. Something in reparation for my loss
thou surely owest me. Monthly thou seest her. It lies
within thy power for once, one time only I ask, to let
me take thy place to Bristol Castle. Thou mightest
feign illness, or a wish for unbroken devotion for sixty
days, or any of a thousand things. This, which I so
long have dreamed of, I ask as my right. "

"'Twas well spoken, Philip," said Anthony. He
was surprised and rather pleased to find in the young
monk something more of strength than he had ever
believed him to possess. The comment upon the
words had leaped from his lips before he thought.
When he had paused to consider for a moment, he was
not so much in favor of the proposition. However,
since he had said so much, no selfishness should make
him retract. Philip was waiting anxiously for more.

" Thy demand is just, and thou shalt have thy wish
an I can bring it to pass. Even next month shalt thou
go in my place. But there is one thing — which I
know not how to manage — "

334

" Thou meanest thy people at -

" Hush ! Speak not of them within this monastery.
Even though there were no seeming danger, — thou
canst scarce know how much hangs upon secrecy with
us."

"I would thou hadst told me all concerning it,
Anthony," said Philip, anxiously. "Perhaps there
also might I take thy place."

Anthony looked first horrified, and then laughed.
"Nay, Philip. For once it must go. But when thou
art in the city thou shalt leave a message for me at the
place whose direction I shall give thee."

" God bless thee for that, Anthony. I shall not
easily for — "

"Hark!"

Philip's breaking off and Anthony's exclamation
were simultaneous. The two men there and the one
in the room beyond stood motionless and breathless,
listening to the wild crescendo of noises that came
from the distant refectory. The laughter and the
screams alike contained a note that brought a shudder
to the listeners. The cries more resembled those of
animals than men. Philip turned whiter than ever,
and cowered backward into the shadow of the fireplace.
Catching a glimpse of Anthony's expression he spoke
quickly.

" 'T is but some jest, Anthony! Oh, believe — "

His words were again broken in upon, this time by
a new sound. It was the fearful shrieking of a shrill,
high, agonized voice. Franklin himself was startled
by it, and crept a little nearer to the doorway of the
day-room. Anthony stood rigid, still listening, his
face like ashes, his expression one of ominously grow
ing fury. The first scream was succeeded by another.
Philip took one step forward, with intent to lay
hold on Anthony. But before he could touch him
Anthony was gone, flying from the room, down the

color mm Clarir 335

passage, across the vestibulum, and out into the night.
The young man followed him for ten steps, blindly.
Then he stopped. There had been a quick sound
behind him. He turned about, and found himself face
to face with David Franklin.

They eyed each other silently for a little. The
precentor's movement was rash. He had hoped to
escape the room and follow Anthony. Philip's unlucky
intervention infuriated him. The young monk's con
fusion was greater. With the slow dawning of sus
picion in his gentle face, a baleful smile rose to David's
lips.

" Yea, verily have I heard all that was said, master
hypocrite. Know, then, that I will take wondrous
good care that you see naught of your Mary in Bristol.
Indeed, Harold, methinks, will scarce tolerate — "

Here Franklin ceased to speak, of his own accord.
Philip was no longer listening. At a sound from
across the corridor he had once more hurried to the
doorway, in excitement. Franklin, with his usual
curiosity, followed. He was in time to see Anthony's
tall, gaunt figure disappearing into the gloom of the
cloister; and, as he passed one of the lamps that
burned upon a pillar, he perceived what it was that
Anthony had gone to get. In his right hand he was
carrying a long, black whip.

Spellbound by their apprehensions the two monks
stood together, side by side, in the doorway, silent
and motionless. Neither was sure what Anthony was
going to do, but both had seen in his face that he was
to be feared, just now. Franklin's eyes were sparkling
with hatred; Philip's were dull with anxiety for his
friend's safety. Both listened. A sudden stillness
succeeded the riotous noise. Then, out of the heavy
silence, came the vague, reverberating echoes of a
single voice. The words that it spoke were being
thundered upon the air, but the phrases were too rapid

to be intelligible at such a distance. A low, tumultu
ous murmur followed the speech. As it grew greater
it became gradually more and more thickly punctuated
by strange howls, as of living things in pain. Philip
could bear inaction no longer. Springing quickly for
ward, with an inarticulate cry he started at a run
down the hall, toward the refectory. In an instant
Franklin was at his side, then had outdistanced him
in speed.

In the western doorway to the refectory stood Fitz-
Hubert. His left arm was raised, and he pointed
to the stone stairway toward which his face was
turned, and which led upward to the dormitories. In
his right hand was the whip, held loosely now. Before
him moved a slow procession of cowed and terror-
stricken monks. One by one, as they passed him by,
they shrank, like dogs, from his proximity. All save
four — Harold, William Vigor, Michael Canaen the
almoner, and Franklin the spy — were there. Wil
liam Lorrimer, toothless and dribbling with wine,
slunk away to his lodge at the gate; Eustace Comyn
and John Cusyngton, both deacons of the chapter,
hurried along, never raising their eyes to look at each
other; Joseph Hanleighe and Peter de Rivere, sub-
almoners, ordinarily not ill-looking men, crept together
up the stairs, eyes swollen, limbs shaking, and lips
muttering maudlin phrases; Anselm the sacrist, called
"the Bitter," now silly and tearful in his drunken
ness, walked unsteadily in the line, twining and un
twining his long fingers ; John Waterleighe, the young
librarian, a handsome, fiery fellow, dragged himself
with difficulty up toward his cell; cellarer, butler,
refectioner, tailors, scribes, chamberlains, masters of
the fabric and novices, priests, friars, lay brethren and
farmers, conquered by the reaction of their own natures,
left the scene of their dishonor. And over them all,
till the last had gone, stood Anthony, with no tri-

<(Oli*ol rtTrtlrtt* lAt'*rt /iM^vt't"

Color ®ini Clan'!" 337

umph in his face, no despotism in his air. Only the
pain in his arm and the broken lash of the whip in his
hand bore witness to what he had done. And finally,
when that melancholy throng had passed, and he must,
turn to those who still remained, cowering, within the
great room, the tears stood visible in his eyes, and in
his throat there was a sob of pity.

22

CHAPTER XIX

THE MEMORY OF SAVARIC

DURING the last two weeks of August, and through
the whole of the September of 12 1 1, Glastonbury,
from midnight to dark again, was one ceaseless
hum of prayer. The spirit of repentance burned at fever
heat within the souls of the monks. The penitential cells,
in the vault underneath the chapels, were never empty,
and a long line of further applicants for their occupancy
were able to endure waiting only by continued flagella
tions, and Pater Nosters repeated by the gross. Those
monks whose bodily strength did not forsake them were
accounted especially fortunate, since they were enabled
to begin matins at twelve, and remain praying in the
great church for two hours after compline ; thus permit
ting themselves something over one hour of rest in the
twenty-four. There were no longer any recreation periods.
The chapter sat three times a day, for the bestowing of
extra penances. The dinner-hour was kept under the
most rigid etiquette, and one might read only from the
"Lives of the Saints". The very philosophers were con
sidered frivolous. There was almost nothing to eat. All
fasted continuously, and for five weeks no meat was put
upon the table. The duties of Benedict Vintner were
practically at a standstill. Nothing but water was drunk
throughout the abbey. Harold, William Vigor, and the
almoner had returned to Glastonbury on the nineteenth
of August, in a state of religious fanaticism that betrayed
the extent of their relaxations at the abbot's country-
seat. Poor Harold prayed, fasted, and knelt o' nights

of ^aftarfc 339

in his oratory, till his comfortable figure had all but
melted away, and his pallor and weakness were startling.
It was astounding for how long a time religious en
thusiasm lasted with the brethren. But, before the six
weeks were over, many a man had been obliged to relin
quish, temporarily, his efforts toward Heaven, and crawl
away to the infirmary, with a dozen diseases contracted
through overtaxed bodies, loss of nervous stability, and
lack of proper food.

Strange as it' seemed to them all, Anthony was the one
who pleaded most with the chapter for the forgiveness
of these weak and willing brethren. More curious still,
however, was the violent objection of the same men to
any hint of interference with their voluntary mortifications.
One morning, at a general meeting, Anthony spoke
in behalf of leniency, and more gradual overcoming of
weaknesses. He dealt gently with the sins that had
been committed, and urged as strongly as possible the
impossibility of continued restraint of flesh so human.
Waxing still more earnest, he forgot himself, in a way,
and grew anti-monastic ; though it is doubtful if any one
there quite understood that. But he was listened to
with astonishment and horror by all save one ; and that
one, though it was William Vigor himself, had nothing
to do but hold his peace. The only result of the matter,
so far as the speaker could see, was a decree of bread
and water for two days, with the repetition of fifty extra
Aves for himself.

To a soul that possessed either consistency or sincer
ity, it was the greatest relief when all this fanatical dis
play of remorse was over, and the abbey settled down
once more to the old routine. David Franklin, when he
had slept over the matter, concluded that sharp action
concerning the conversation overheard in the day-room
by him would not be wise. He perceived that nothing
conclusive enough to make a startling sensation in the
chapter could be repeated by him. Consequently he

34°

confided all that he had heard to his friends Cusyngton
and Antwilder, in private, and expatiated volubly upon
those few quickly hushed but suspicious phrases con
cerning Anthony's " work." These others, while they
talked a good deal with the precentor over the matter,
had very little faith in the thing ; but, ever ready to do
Anthony a mischief, watched him as much as they could,
and almost invariably followed him upon his journeys to
Bristol, — -where, indeed, there seemed to be highly un
usual proceedings at a certain incomprehensible inn.

Anthony continued his journeys very regularly. But,
try persuasion or entreaty as he would, Philip could
never be induced to take his place. That was the
direct outcome of the spy's work. The young monk
never told Anthony what had occurred. He dared not
do this, being afraid of Anthony's passionate temper.
But he had been cut to the heart, and frightened as well,
by Franklin's words ; and, more still, by the unspoken
suspicion which he felt to have been behind them : a
suspicion of a wrong relationship between himself and
Mary.

So the long winter came, and then slowly crawled
away. From day's end to day's end, there was no
variety at Glastonbury. Things had fallen back into
their old, happy-go-lucky carelessness. There was
drunkenness on shaving-day; undue talking at dinner;
forbidden wine at refection ; whispering during sext ;
and a general tardiness for lauds. Latterly Anthony
had begun again to haunt, for some rest and relief
from the monotony, the chilly chapel on Tower Hill.

Abroad, in England and in Europe, the great politi
cal aspect was not much changed. King John was busy
in quieting his Welsh rebels, and listening to fearful
prophecies concerning a speedily approaching doom for
himself. Isabella idled and flirted as usual at Caris-
brooke, Winchester, or Hurstmonceaux. Innocent of
Rome, Philip of France, and Stephen, not yet of Canter-

of ^atiaric 341

bury, sat in a row, with their heads knowingly cocked,
while the five English bishops gambled and prayed at
Rouen. All England was discontentedly quiet ; and for
many a long day the ancient abbey had heard and felt
nothing from its old tormentor, Jocelyn of Bath.

Taking heart at a freedom now long-continued, Glas-
tonbury, in the early summer of 1212, called for the
chapter a great assembly, which was to bring about
matters of moment to the history of the holy house. As
a prelude to this meeting, William Vigor, who took high
interest in Anthony Fitz-Hubert, because of a similarity
in taste and intellect, told him a long and rambling
tale about the intrigues, pleasaunces, and infidelity of
Church and State, which had brought the monastery
into that quarrel perhaps the most famous of any in the
annals of mediaeval asceticism.

In the year of grace 1190, one Henry de Soliac was
Lord Abbot of Glastonbury. For the aggrandizement
of this honored house he labored incessantly, and suc
cessfully, since he was a man of great ambition and a
lover of magnificence. At that time the lands and pos
sessions subject to the rule of the monastery were more
extensive than those of any other religious house in
England ; and when De Soliac had at last managed to
wrest the churches of Pilton and Dicket from the sees of
Bath and Wells, he brought the establishment which he
ruled, to the very summit of its power.

At this time the King of the Lion Heart, after months
of aimless wandering in the midst of Europe, on his way
back from a crusade, was a prisoner in the hands of a
half-civilized Austrian noble. Into the solitary captivity
of Richard's life there entered a petty priest, named Sav-
aric, a man of great talents, greater ambitions, and a
most persuasive manner of speech. The King found
him to be a fascinating fellow. Savaric discovered,
at last, the identity of the prisoner ; and then he instantly
perceived that the opportunity of his life was come.

342 aincanonfieo

He lost no time in seizing it. There were smooth pro
positions and perfectly plausible arguments on the part
of the priest. These were followed by meditations,
questions and, finally, promises on the side of the King,
until, by means of stolen keys, filed bars, and, possibly,
to complete the romance, sleeping potions delivered to
the guards, the Lord of the Islands stood, one night,
free of his prison, a prancing horse beside him, and
behind, two mounted men : the one, Blondel, the bard ;
the other, Savaric, Lord Bishop of Bath and of Wells.

The trio reached England safely, and received a wel
come worthy of royalty. Among all the rest, my lords
soi-supposant. Bishops of Bath and Wells, hastened to
the court of Windsor to renew fealty and faith with their
King. At the castle, embarrassing though it was, they
were formally presented, so to speak, to themselves ; that
is, to Savaric, now not only Bishop of a double see, but,
what he had also demanded on reaching England,
Abbot of Glastonbury, with all its lands. At least, so
said the King, so agreed the Pope, and so proclaimed,
willy-nilly, Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury,
who had been loaded with commands from Windsor and
letters patent from Rome. The monks of Glastonbury,
who had hitherto rejoiced in widely extended homage,
and the income from thousands of acres of well-managed
land, saw themselves suddenly reduced to dependency
upon a rival hitherto despised. More bitter still, the
new master was not even a countryman of theirs ; one
who spoke their tongue with the greatest difficulty ; and
in whose veins, besides, flowed but the commonest of
thin red blood. Was it to be endured? Assuredly De
Soliac would have cried " no " for answer. But De Sol-
iac no longer ruled over the abbey. Ambition brings
consideration from high places. Savaric was afraid of
the abbot, and so he had been converted into Bishop of
Worcester. Within eight months after his ascent to the
Episcopal chair, he went up another step, into heaven.

of ^abarfc 343

Meantime, the monastery had been seized in the name
of the law by Savaric's men. At this time Prior Harold
was in Bath, trying for an interview with the Austrian
prelate. When he returned homeward, he found the
abbey in dire confusion. From that time for thirteen
years, until 1205, there was one long-continued struggle
between the two, — Glastonbury and Bath. And it
seems that, gallantly as the monks fought for their right,
their enemy, who had become a power in the world,
succeeded in getting the best of his opponents in every
single trial of strength, since the monks had barren
opportunities for the making of outside partisans.

First, two deacons of the chapter visited Richard at
Winchester, and were out-manoeuvred in their audiences
from first to last by Savaric's tool, the Bishop of Ely.
They returned to the cloister with nothing gained.
That year the tribute from the abbey exacted by Wells
was so extortionate that, amid tears, curses, and hope
less threats, the ancient shrine of Saint Benedict, which
was a mass of silver, together with half the gold in the
treasury, was despatched as payment to the neighboring
cathedral. Goaded to action by this injustice, two
monks departed, soon after the New Year, to Normandy,
where at last they saw the King alone. Richard was
courteous and kind. Possibly Savaric had been grow
ing overbearing, of late. At all events, the King ap
peared to have repented of his action, and lo ! when
the envoys got back again to Somerset they found
there great rejoicing and a noble welcome for them
selves. Savaric the arrogant had been deposed, Glas
tonbury was free, and William of St. Mary's, afterwards
Bishop of London, had been installed in the abbot's
chair.

But tampering with affairs of the Church, delightful
pastime as it had always been to the Norman race, was
as disastrous as it was interesting. Savaric speedily be
took himself and his polished manners to Rome, and

344 <Hncanom?eD

won Pope Gregory, far more complacent and gullible
than his innocent successor, completely over to his
friendship and method of thinking. Savaric was very
promptly reinstated ; Richard, well reprimanded ; Hu
bert Walter, who was much annoyed and equally tired
of the whole affair, ordered to look to it more closely,
and preserve quiet among the refractory monks ; while
lastly, Glastonbury itself was once more, after three
little months of freedom, put back into bondage. The
brethren were forbidden the election of any of their own
officers, and commanded to pay obedience, with very
good grace, to their tormentor.

Then were the monks tired of quarrelling, and ready
to submit to the apparently inevitable? Oh, no ! They
were all Englishmen. Once again those two deacons,
who had been so successful with the King, John
Cusyngton and Eustace Comyn, were despatched to
Windsor ; while, at the same time, the sub-prior, Wil
liam Pike, hied him away to Rome and Gregory. These
three emissaries were all successful in their errands,
and, ere long, the world saw Glastonbury once more
nominally free, with Abbot William Pike at its head.
Toward the end of the same year — 1198 — Savaric
laid the monastery under excommunication, and this
revenge was confirmed by Pandulph, the legate of the
new Pope, Innocent Third. With poor, weak old Greg
ory dead, the hopes of the abbey were small indeed.
But, nothing daunted as yet, Comyn and the abbot,
momentarily relieved from prayer, set out to Normandy
and the King for advice. Thence William Pike went on
alone to Rome, where he might try skill at fence with
the new Holiness and his old enemy, the bishop, who
was also there. It was a play of wits, — two strong men
against one monk. Was it a wonder that the solitary one
went down before them ? Eustace Comyn had been im
prisoned at Rouen, by the previous arrangement of Sava
ric. A month later the Abbot of Glastonbury died by

of ^abaric 345

poison in the Eternal City. And the onlookers scored
two for the Bishop of Wells.

Now Hubert of Canterbury, under papal direction,
excommunicated Glastonbury all over again. The
monks, weary with the conflict, and in despair over the
sudden death of King Richard, their single remaining
hope, submitted to the yoke. On Easter Day the ban
was removed, and hell stared them in the face no longer.
Next morning all the monks rose again for matins, as of
yore, and the dream of a sure heaven kept them awake
and praying happily for a week. Meantime Savaric had
paid a visit to King John. That monarch, not yet versed
in ecclesiastical history, and caring not a penny about
the squabbles of a few paltry monks, good-naturedly re
created the bishop Abbot of Glastonbury, and went his
way to the hunt. '

Savaric himself to come as ruler to Glastonbury? No !
By all the pagan gods ! This, at least, was past endur
ance. The monks held a meeting while the bishop was
journeying from Windsor, and decided that the thought
of having him before them, presiding over meals, con
ducting mass daily, was too much for the memory of
William Pike. So, when their enemy reached his abbey,
he came against locked gates, barred doors, and win
dows that were stoutly defended by brethren who defi
antly bade him enter an he could.

The abbot-bishop was a valiant man, and the idea of
a bit of a conflict was, perhaps, not so distasteful as it
might have been. He brought up men-at-arms and
captains from Wells, near by, and himself directed the
\ siege of the newly erected church. Starvation at last
forced the garrison to submit ; but it was with bleed
ing hearts that they did so. Doors once opened,
the hungry little company within found itself in dire
straits. Savaric's wrath could be as dominant as his
complacency when he chose. Lands were ruthlessly
pillaged, the monastery despoiled of its most sacred and

2Jncanoni?eH

treasured relics, which forthwith were conveyed to Wells ;
while within the abbey the monks were subjected to the
greatest indignities ; absolution was refused them, and
any murmur against the action of their tyrant was stilled
by the threat of rack and wheel ; which machines had
been set up in the dark vaults below the church.

Some months of this treatment once again roused the
monks to unanimous action. They secretly despatched
some pretty despairing documents to Rome, relying
desperately upon the pertinence of their language to
bring the tartar Pope to a realization of their state.
Innocent was keen to perceive where certain things
might go no further. He replied by recommending
Savaric, somewhat strongly, to clemency. Savaric did
not yet feel himself stable enough to defy Christendom,
neither did he care to part entirely with the revenues
from his abbey. Therefore he arranged a treaty,
whereby the revenues of Glastonbury should be divided
evenly between Wells and the monastery ; while he him
self would dwell, for a time, in his palace at Wells. No
choice was given the monks. They accepted the alter
native, mourning the indignity of their loss of lands,
while rejoicing at the prospect of being free from the
presence of their oppressor. The manors and estates of
Meere, Pucklechurch, Winscombe, Badbury, Ashbury,
Buckland, Lyme, Blackford, Cranmore, Kingston, and
Christian-Walford, the richest, if not quite half, the lands
in possession of the abbey, were made over for manage
ment and revenue to the See of Wells. This was in the
year 1204.

Now, for the space of a twelvemonth, the old and
wearisome quarrel was stilled. Savaric's life in his new
country had aged him prematurely, and he found his
strength to be failing him. When, by degrees, he per
ceived eternity to be growing clearer before his gaze,
his mind was not peaceful, and certain incidents in his
brilliant career came back to his memory disagreeably.

of ^>abaric 347

Even his confessor ventured to shake his head over
them, and advised a very full and speedy reparation be
fore the rights of absolution should again be gone
through with. So it fell out that, in the spring of the
year 1205, when this old Austrian passed away, Glaston-
bury had been restored to something like its pristine
power, and, though a native abbot did not yet rule there,
strong hopes of many good things to come were enter
tained concerning the new rule that was to be put over
them.

An urgent appeal was sent on to Rome to ask of the
Pope that, ere he should place a new bishop over Bath
and Wells (which sees were now considered united for
good), he should restore the Glastonbury lands to
them, and give them permission to elect an abbot of
their own. No direct reply to this request did Inno
cent make. Direct replies to queries, or decisive action
at short notice, were things which went against every
fibre of this Pope's being. He glanced pleasantly at the
tonsured deputation, and coughed behind his hand.
Finally, as a left-handed answer, he anointed Priest
Jocelyn bishop of the double see ; and also, apparently,
left him his choice about ruling the lands of the abbey.

The envoys returned from Rome. Jocelyn put on
his mitre and shortly met the monks of his quasi-
doinain in conference. He was cheery, jocund, and
conversationally inclined. They, it must be confessed,
were sulky. Jocelyn was a conventional man, and one
with a profound respect for tradition. He had the
highest admiration for his predecessors in office, as men
who had well completed their earthly tasks, and haply
put them by for better things. He considered very
carefully, in leisure hours, the plans and the policies of
Bishop Savaric. The more lie thought upon them the
more entirely did they meet with his approbation. He
was a careful man, was Jocelyn, and he took time thor
oughly to consider. Indeed, for several years, his im-

348 (3ncanom?et)

mediate actions were desultory and unspirited. During
this time the revenues from abbey lands continued to
pour into the coffers of Wells, and the abbotless monks
went their usual round, waiting, with apprehensive drear
iness. At last the bishop made up his mind to some
thing. It was after the time of Interdict, after the year
of the excommunication of the King, and Jocelyn had
taken to spending most of his days in France, with
Langton and some other very poor company. Despite
the opinions that were continually expressed in his pres
ence, the temperate bishop felt a profoundly dutiful and
loyal pity for the actions of his misguided sovereign.
To this sovereign he had already paid several visits ; and
he was more than likely to pay yet another, — in fact,
he determined upon one which was to be most impor
tant. This was in the beginning of the year 1211, —
and was the greatest of secrets among two or three.

King John had never been known to find much
pleasure in the calls of his clergy. But the advent of
the little bishop, curiously enough, was usually hailed
with good cheer, even though Jocelyn might bring with
him a dozen matters which must be laid before the
council ere the evening feast might begin. In this last
visit, however, he had become slightly importunate.
The King, in company with four of his comrades,
solemnly listened to Jocelyn's demand that he be
made, outright, abbot of that tiresome abbey in
Somerset. Such an act might appear to be rather
left-handed, done as it would be by an excommuni
cated king; but Jocelyn appeared earnestly to desire
it; and doubtless he had his plans. King and coun
cillor together listened to the excellent reasoning and
the multifarious propositions of the alluring little man.
John was alone when he was quietly presented with
four fat sacks of persuasive gold. But the councillors
sat in a row and laughed when the King later recounted
the affair to them.

jttemor? of ^>at>aric 349

Meantime the bishop, meditating a quick coup, left
Windsor in a great hurry, and hied him rapidly to
Glastonbury. Here he was admitted diplomatically,
and conducted to the prior's rooms without any word
of his arrival being spread in the monastery. But, once
within the prior's apartment, Jocelyn found himself not
much better off. Most unfortunately, just at this time
Harold was in a condition highly unfit for serious con
ference, having enjoyed, for the day, the close com
panionship of Benedict Vintner, and some of the goods
that were in his keeping. In short, the prior was very
drunk ; and, to crown the calamity, William Vigor had
just ridden off to collect rents at Pucklechurch, and
would not be back until the morrow. In the prior's
apartment Jocelyn and William Lorrimer, his guide,
held an agitated conference, interrupted by philosophic
but scarcely pertinent remarks on the part of Harold.
In the end the old lodge-keeper set out in quest of some
discreet person who might receive my Lord Bishop and
hear his words with propriety. Peering in at the chapel
door, for nones were in progress, the first person to
catch the old fellow's eye was Anthony. Noting a
quick sign from the keeper, the monk rose quietly,
and left the room almost unnoticed, since he had been
kneeling in the last row.

So it was Anthony who heard and replied to Jocelyn's
wiles, and it was through Anthony that the entire mat
ter was reported to the King. It was also Anthony who
privately recounted the interview afterward to Harold,
and relieved that jovial official mightily by not permit
ting the secret of his impotence to become known in
the abbey. Perhaps on this account Fitz-Hubert was
present at the private assembly of the chapter, when
certain non-committal letters were drawn up by William
Vigor, approved by the rest, and despatched to John.
And Anthony, hearing later at Bristol from De Burgh
the tale of the bags of gold, was not so surprised as

35°

either the bishop or the chapter when month after
month went by, and no answer, one way or the other,
came back from the throne.

Jocelyn, to tell the truth, was furious and puzzled.
He never afterwards learned in what way his plan had
miscarried. But, returning again to Rouen, he found
some satisfaction in re-entering the plots and confer
ences held by Stephen Langton and his friends against
the English King. His next move toward Lackland
was long delayed ; but the hope of the abbacy of Glas-
tonbury was too tantalizing forever to be abandoned.

Months passed, a new year came round, and drew out
uneventfully, until we approach the early summer of
1212, when, on a certain morning, the Glastonbury
Chapter was called together, to take counsel with re
gard to a defiant step. Tierce was omitted, high
mass split in half, and it wanted but a quarter to ten
in the morning when every man of the abbey, even to
the cooks, crowded into the circular chapter-house,
and prepared to breathe with difficulty for the next two
hours.

Prior Harold made a formal, opening address, in
Latin. No doubt it was a very worthy effort, since
Comyn and Vigor had written it together, Harold had
introduced a little religion, and Cusyngton had spiced
it well with ecclesiastical quotations. For all tkat there
was a perceptible movement of relief when it was over,
and the sub-prior brought the immediate matter of de
bate up before his audience, and, speaking in the Saxon
tongue, tried to make it clearly comprehensible to all.
Having to a certain extent gone over the familiar his
tory of the long since lackadaisical dispute with Jocelyn,
William Vigor concluded his speech with a setting forth
of the proposed act which should bring the story to
another long-delayed climax. Hence his words :

"Jocelyn of Bath, having followed the example of
many of his fellow-prelates, who, because of the Inter-

of ^>aiaric 351

diet and the excommunication of the King, live the
least of their lives in England, spendeth now most of
his time at Rouen. Us he hath, for many months,
troubled but little. In the matter of our late dispute
with him, the King, most wisely, hesitates to decide
for either party. From this, methinks, we need fear
no opposing action on the part of John, in reference
to that thing which it is our intent now to do. Thus,
an we can keep the affair long enow hid from Jocelyn
to gain once again a foothold within our own county,
success might be assured. Then, when Interdict be
finally removed, as needs it must in time, and Jocelyn
again returns to Somerset to dwell, we will unmask
boldly, and without fear proclaim him abbot whom
to-day we shall elect for ourselves, and anoint as holy
in the sight of the Trinity. For this, brethren, is what
we are herewith met to do."

Applause, excited and long, followed this climax of
the speech. But the sub-prior was still upon his feet.
Expectation once more threw silence over the assem
blage, and the last few words were added.

" This proposition have I set before you, in the name
of the chapter of this abbey. But now we do request
that, if there be any here who doubteth or feareth the
wisdom of this act, he will at once stand forth and tell
us the wherefore of his misgiving, that we may hear and
judge the merit of his reasoning."

Amid a profound stillness William Vigor sat down.
His eyes passed rapidly over the company, to see if
there were any one who showed signs of wishing to
speak. After an instant of wavering, and, even then,
not sure of the entire wisdom of his move, Anthony
rose to his feet, bowed respectfully to the abbot's empty
chair, saluted Harold and the deacons, then stood up
right, scanning, for a little, silently, the faces of those
about him. They were for the most part dominated by
surprise, but not a few were also dark with displeasure.

352

It was a great pity that Anthony's unpopularity was
so fixed. Though he had been an inmate of the
monastery for several years, he was still looked upon
askance and curiously, as a stranger not friendly to the
monastic life. Just now, had he stood much longer with
out speaking, with that irritating gaze that was half iron
ical, half pitying, seemingly fixed upon the face of each
man there, it was highly probable that his speaking at
all might have been forbidden. William Vigor, however,
the most acute and the most tolerant man in the abbey,
had, though he scarcely appeared to raise his eyes, in
one short second seen enough to make him risk in
curring the displeasure of Harold by saying sharply :

" Speak on, then, Anthony, if thou hast aught to
say ! "

" Mayhap, brethren, ye are all aware that ofttimes in
the city of Bristol, upon my monthly visits there, I
hold converse on behalf of King John with my Lord
Hubert de Burgh, who hath been my life-long and
faithful friend." Again Anthony hesitated, for he real
ized what deep waters were about him. However,
having- taken the first step, he knew that he must go
on. " As ye all do also know, the King hath found
much trouble and many enemies in the Church.
Among these Jocelyn of Bath is, with him, as dan
gerous and as double-handed as he hath been to us.
John goeth never upon what he alone sees of that prel
ate, for his words, his smiles, and his gold are not twice
for the same thing. Therefore he hath been watched.
Now, I tell you openly as one of you, a friend, that when
I came hither from Canterbury Hubert de Burgh bade
me perceive all that I could of the bishop's dealings with
Glastonbury. Only once have I had speech with him
here, and that was but by chance. All that he said in
that conference reached the King through De Burgh, and
it was only for that reason that John refused outright to
create Jocelyn abbot of this monastery. For the nonce

|ttemot^ of ^abanc 353

he lieth still. But, once having been defeated by us in
contest, he will, an he possesses the spirit of his prede
cessor Savaric, rise speedily once more to the struggle.
At any instant the bishop may return to England, visit
the King, and be upon us here with some intent that
we may not guess. Therefore, brethren, knowing what
I do, I have seen best to set it forth to you, to warn
you that all is less quiet than you think. Elect an abbot
now, an ye like. I will say no more."

This speech did Anthony no good, though it had
been attentively listened to. He himself, before he
had been upon his feet a moment, realized the fact
that all his tact could not save him from suspicion, on
account of the admission which he had been forced to
make. Consequently he had said nothing at all to the
point, and had left the matter in such a way that curi
osity was only the more rife. No sooner was he seated
than there began the expected round of stares and
whispers, some of which came to Fitz-Hubert's ears.

" Think you he might repeat our action?"

" Assuredly."

" Nay, nay. Be not hasty. I am none so sure."

" T would be rash, now."

" Perhaps."

And finally, with the last of these, Anthony was on
his feet again to make reply. " Nay, brethren, hark ye !
'T is my duty to learn whate'er I may of the Bishop of
Bath. My Lord Abbot of Glastonbury being no con
cern of mine, I shall say naught of him to any. Be ye
there at rest. I have but warned you, lest ye be dis
covered. Perchance he, as well as the King, hath spies.
Who can know? Be careful. That is all that I would
say. Elect him abbot whom ye will."

The whispers stopped. However much Anthony
might be disliked among the monks, it was neverthe
less an unaccountable fact that any simple, unsup
ported statement of his was ordinarily accepted as true.

23

354 2!ncanoni?ct)

Perhaps it was his perfectly self-possessed and ear
nest manner of speaking. Here the brethren certainly
showed some intuition, however; for never, to them or
any other, did Fitz-Hubert think of sinking to false
hood. That was a part of his character that had been
omitted.

At length, after some debate, this rash little body
elected William Vigor for their abbot. The choice, at
least, was good. But still Anthony slightly shook his
head, as the entire party, in high excitement, followed
their new lord into the great church for the final
ceremony.

When it was all over and Abbot William had ordered
that dinner be served, while the monks hurried to the
lavatories, that they might chatter for a moment at their
ease, Vigor, seeing Anthony alone at the end of the
procession, grasped his arm in friendly fashion, and
drew him one side.

" Thou earnest near to hindering my election, this
morn, Anthony," he said, looking with searching kind
ness into the other's face.

" Yes, my Lord Abbot; so I tried to do."

William laughed, then, in a moment, turned grave
again. " But methinks that it was thou again who, at
the last, turned the scale away from Cusyngton in my
favor."

" That, also, I tried to do."

" Then what think you of the abbot? "

" That that man who was most fitted for the post of
any in the abbey hath been elected."

" Gratias. Still, you approve not the election ? "

" Gravely do I fear its consequences."

" Then, Anthony, should the crisis come, may I hold
thee as my friend ? For, more than that of any other
man i' the abbey do I respect thy intellect."

They stood face to face, before the entrance to the
great hall. Their eyes had met. Anthony's hand

of ^abarfc 355

went quickly out, and was as instantly grasped in the
warm pressure of William's. So was their conversation
finished.

In another part of the abbey, three men stood
close together; and upon their lips was, also, the
name of Anthony. They were David Franklin, Joseph
Antwilder, and John Cusyngton, who was furious with
disappointed hope. The three were prepared for the
noon meal, and stood huddled in one corner of the
smaller lavatory. Antwilder was speaking.

" None the less, David, I apprehend that the watch
ing of Jocelyn and his talks with De Burgh are the
' work ' of Anthony that thou hast so often prated of."

" And would my Lord de Burgh and Anthony Fitz-
Hubert need all the Falcon to themselves, on the
nights when they held converse together? Would the
entire inn be closed because of them? Nay, Joseph.
By the body of Christ I swear that 't is not so ! "

" Then," cried out Cusyngton, " if there indeed be
aught of sin that goeth on i' that hostel on those nights,
I also swear by thine oath, Franklin, that Master Fitz-
Hubert shall dearly pay for that which he is doing!
Mark me : I yet will be abbot of this abbey, an there
be none greater than William Vigor to contend with
me. And then — and then — we shall behold. We
shall behold ! "

CHAPTER XX

JOCELYN OF BATH

ONCE again, after the lapse of twenty-one years,
an abbot ruled over Glastonbury Abbey. It
was a novelty now to be called on all occa
sions to the lordly chambers of the real ruler, instead
of the little suite belonging to the jovial, impotent old
prior ; to salute an actual person instead of a chair,
in the refectory and the chapter ; to be governed
again by the will of one whom all could respect. It
was as though a gust of purer air were continuously
blowing through the monastery. Duties that had
hitherto been dismally dragged through were now
zealously performed ; disobedience in any department
of work became rare ; there was but little drunken
ness at present in the abbey; and, newest thing of
all, William Vigor, their master, was constantly among
them.

This man, who was neither old nor young, neither
particularly homely nor strikingly handsome, neither
tall nor short, neither thin nor fat, who had gray eyes
and an honest mouth, having been all his life a monk of
Glastonbury, and for fifteen years its sub-prior, had
not, since the death of his dearest friend, William Pike,
spent three consecutive months within the abbey. He
had lived independently, and gone his own gait about
the county, over the abbey lands, dependencies and
Tittle monasteries, where he was received as a guest
of importance. Notwithstanding this, his life had been
one of strict asceticism, and his life-struggle one against

3loceli?n of OBat^ 357

ambition, which, however, at the last seemed to have
overcome him after all. Savaric he had hated violently.
Jocelyn, whom he did not know, he despised. During
the whole month previous to his election to the abbacy,
he had been preparing the brethren for that thing. Up
to the morning of the election, when Anthony first
spoke against it, and then, at a point not foreseen by
Vigor, where Cusyngton had come so near to taking the
office from the sub-prior, quickly turned the scale back
again into his favor, William had never noticed particu
larly the silent, pallid-faced fellow who lived so alone
among them all. But, by a trait of contrariness in his
nature, before that first opposing speech was finished,
the prospective abbot had taken a sudden fancy to the
man whose life held so much more than he had guessed.
The conclusion of the matter, that short conversation
after the election, sealed a firm if unostentatious friend
ship between two whose natural tastes were much alike,
and whose developed natures were utterly dissimilar.

The summer of 1212 was employed in the rejuvenation
of Glastonbury. To the farthest acre of its dominion
the influence of the new abbot was felt. Every secular
laborer for miles around had been told the "secret " of
the new rule. Had this not been done purposely it
would still have happened. A woman can keep a secret
better than a monk. The farmerer, when he rode,
whispered it proudly abroad ; the almoners gave it
away like bread to the poor who still came to their
door ; and William Lorrimer had told it eagerly to each
uninterested stranger who drew rein at the gate. Oh,
a most carefully concealed thing, this election at Glas
tonbury ! The very birds throughout Somerset sang
of it ; and it was doubtless they who, when they went
south again, told the tale to the King, who was visiting at
Carisbrooke. For certain it was that, though Anthony
had said not a word on the subject to Hubert de Burgh,
John knew perfectly well all about the matter. To be

358 (Hucanoni?eD

sure, the knowledge did no one harm ; for all he did
was to laugh over it most heartily, in thinking of the
expression upon Jocelyn's face, when, returning with
new bribes from Rome, he should learn that his coveted
post was filled.

To the King, haply, was given the eminent pleasure
of being the one to call that expression forth ; for, in
the pleasant month of September, while John was enjoy
ing himself greatly at the hunt, in the wilds of the little
island whither he had retreated for rest, Jocelyn, tired
again of the priestly broils in old Rouen, once more
came from over seas to interest that most un-Christian
lord concerning the affair that lay always next his
heart.

It was a fair and lovely morning when the prelate's
white-winged ship landed him once more at the little
village now called Cowes. Here horses belonging to
the royal party were forcibly borrowed from the peas
ants who held them in charge, and Jocelyn, with his
attendant priests, set off through the winding forest
road, and out over pastures and harvest-fields, toward
the castle whose history was yet all to come. Caris-
brooke itself belonged to the Norman family of Fitz-
Osborne, good partisans of the excommunicated King,
whom they were most proud to have as guest. And
dearly did John love to avail himself of their hospitable
invitation, for Wight was a dreamy, peaceful islet,
where one might remain for a year, untroubled by any
news of the doings of the outer world, if he would.
Indeed, though the King had now lived there a full
three months, Jocelyn was but the sixth or seventh
visitor who had, in all that time, come to disturb his
contentment.

At a little distance from Carisbrooke there was a small
priory of Cistercian monks. Here the worthy bishop,
being no guest of Henry Fitz-Osborne and not averse to
standing upon his dignity with the King, when that

31ocel?n of I3atlj 359

dignity could be comfortably housed and reverently
tended the while, purposed lodging. Having landed
at about ten o'clock in the morning, Jocelyn reached
the priory at somewhere near noon. Here, when his
state and title were made known, the simple monks,
who had entertained none too many bishops in their
isolated abode, received him with great joy and much
ceremony and confusion. He was given the prior's own
rooms for habitation, since there was no guest-chamber
good enough for a visitor so lofty. The prior himself
turned, for the time being, into a common cell, amply
repaid for the discomfort by the bishop's conversation,
and his near presence at meals and services, which,
from lauds to sext, Jocelyn attended daily with great
propriety.

Immediately upon his arrival the bishop despatched
his two priests to the castle, to wait upon the King, and
request an audience with him. John, together with his
train and Lord Fitz-Osborne, was away at the hunt, and
would scarce be back ere dark, when the bishop might
send his messengers again. Such was the high-handed
answer returned to the bishop by the first gentleman of
the bedchamber, De Laci. Jocelyn inwardly simmered
with rage. However, he consented to conduct vespers
in person, that afternoon ; thereby eliciting great fer
vency in prayer from the white-robed, white-faced
brethren. At dusk the bishop's men once more wended
their way to Carisbrooke, whence, after a little delay,
they returned, with the word that John would see the
bishop at half-past eight on the following morning;
and, in repeating the intelligence, the messengers wisely
refrained from mentioning the extreme impatience with
which John had granted the audience. So Jocelyn, in
very good spirits, partook of the excellent refection
provided for him and, after entertaining his host and
the monks with one or two not altogether sacred stories,
retired to rest with hopes set high on the result of his

360

intended plea, and the little present that he wished to
deliver to his liege upon the morrowv

Half-past eight in the morning was quite a customary
hour for a royal audience. The King ordinarily broke
fast at six, though on hunting days it was considerably
earlier, and, having finished the meal, had an hour for
the council-chamber or his private matters ere receiv
ing those who came with various intent to seek his
favor. Here at Carisbrooke there had ordinarily been
nothing for him to do but, conscience free, enjoy the
pleasure of the day. That the present arrival of Jocelyn
annoyed him greatly, because it lost him his morning's
ride, everybody about the castle knew. The King's
voice had not been lifted over the matter, but the
King's brow was something that might be profitably
studied.

Just as the shadow on the dial lay at half to IX., the
bugles at the portcullis sounded and the great draw
bridge thundered down over the moat. John, who had
been reading in his oratory, heard the noise. Laying
down his copy of the " De Consolatione," he betook him
self hastily to his temporary audience-chamber. As he
entered, six gentlemen, his advisers, rose solemnly and
bowed in a row. John stuck out his lips and lowered
his brows.

"Indeed, my lords! Did I, in some moment of
aberration, bid ye wait upon me here this morn?"

All the councillors shifted uneasily from one foot
to the other. Then William, the Earl Marshal, said :
" Pardon, sire, w-w-we had thought it your wish
that—"

" T is my wish, gentlemen, that ye attend me and
this tiresome prelate not at all. I would take the
burden of his company most generously all upon my
own shoulders. Therefore get ye gone to your various
pastimes, and — De Neville — look to it that Bucephalus
be ready for me at noon."

of "Bat^ 36t

Seeing that the royal humor was not unapproachable,
the courtiers made their obeisances successfully, ventured
to smile a little at John's words, and then, not ill-pleased
at the release, retired in a group from the apartment.
William of Salisbury, however, lingered a little with
his brother; an elusive smile playing over his fair
face.

" Give thee joy of this morning's sport, John ! " he
said.

" Methinks the treasury will lose somewhat upon it,
Will; but the sight of his face, when he heareth my
news, will be worth the price of all his well-stuffed
bags. Till dinner, cousin."

The Earl departed, still smiling, and his brother
strolled idly toward the extemporized but richly cano
pied throne. His back was toward the door, one foot
upon the chair of State, the other toe resting lightly on
the uncarpeted dais, and he was whistling with good
will, when the door was thrown open by two lackeys and
the chamberlain appeared, just as John seated himself
and once more took up his royal manner.

" My Lord Jocelyn, Bishop of Bath and Wells, Knight
of the Chalice, and of the Order of the Saint Esprit,"
came the pompous announcement. There was a sweep
ing of silken skirts in the corridor and Jocelyn, in full
canonicals, was bowing voluminously on the threshold.

" Enter, enter, my lord. Henry, close the doors,
and see that none disturbs us during the audience,"
commanded the King. Then, as the bishop came im
portantly down the room, John's eyes wandered over
his violet robes and travelled along the bars of sunlight
that mottled the floor up to the high, glassless windows,
out of which he could see nothing but turquoise sky.
The annoyance of a hunt postponed came back to his
mind, and did not leave it immediately; though he
turned a most complacent countenance toward the
bishop, while that personage poured out the customary

362

gratitude for the honor of an audience, and then rose
from his knee, expecting to be asked to sit. This, how
ever, though he was ordinarily courteous and easy about
etiquette, the King did not do. To his embarrassment
and his disadvantage too, Jocelyn was obliged to face
the prospect of a long conversation to be conducted
with great bodily discomfort to himself, and perfect
ease on the part of his opponent.

" Now, my lord, we having greeted your advent with
good pleasure, tell us, we pray you, how you came to
return to our kingdom, and how your conscience rec
onciles so close an approach to one under the ban of
Heaven."

The King was apparently determined to be dis
agreeable to his visitor; for John, like the rest of the
world, knew that Jocelyn's talent at inventing a neatly
turned compliment was far less than his will in that
direction.

" Loyalty, my liege ; loyalty and love of country
must answer thy questions," responded the bishop,
warily.

" Truly, thy heart is tenderer than I had guessed,"
returned John. "And this interview? Was it long
ing for the mere vision of me that led thee
hither?"

" Per — perchance somewhat that," returned the
bishop, unsmilingly. " But even more an old affair
concerning which I am almost loath to trouble you
again."

"Ah! Our memory fails us, here," said the King,
politely. " We pray you to recall the case to us."

Jocelyn grew uneasy, and began devoutly to wish
that he was not undergoing the extreme honor of a
solitary interview with the royal master. He longed
for the sight of some more readable face than that
before him ; for with all his suave courtesy, it was not
difficult to see that the King was in his most peculiar

of I3at^ 363

mood. But being where he was, the poor bishop knew
that he must go on.

" Mine errand concerns the Abbey of Glastonbury, —
that which lieth in the east of Somersetshire, my Lord
King."

" Oh ! — Glastonbury ! — 'T is not long since we heard
the name, an we remember correctly."

Jocelyn looked closely into the bland vacancy of the
King's countenance. " I would speak with thee yet
once again concerning its abbacy," he said quickly.

" Proceed."

" Sith I have, ere this, spoke on the same matter
before your Grace, I would not weary you with over
much speech to-day." Here Jocelyn paused. John's
face said no more than his lips. His continued impas-
siveness was more disconcerting than anything else
would have been. Happily Jocelyn remembered that
elaborateness in pleading had failed once before; and,
possibly, despite his silence, brevity might please the
King.

" The favor which I have come hither to beg," con
tinued the bishop, " is that you, the lord of England,
should place me in the chair of the abbot of Glastonbury,
and thereby forever firmly unite the lands and revenues
of that monastery to those of the already joined sees
of Bath and Wells. The benefits that would assuredly
accrue from this action to the county, to England, and
to Glastonbury itself, I will readily set forth, with your
gracious permission."

" That were scarce necessary, my lord," deigned the
King, moving a little in his chair. " We thank thee for
having with such clearness stated thy wishes; for we
do, indeed, recollect this matter to be an old one. But
assuredly thou must perceive how much more difficult
the affair hath now become, considering thy new
opponent."

" New opponent? I understand thee not."

364

The King smiled. " I meant thy rival, the present
abbot."

Jocelyn turned white to the lips. " Abbot ! — Abbot !
— M — mean you not Harold, the prior? "

" What ! Can it indeed be true that you have not
heard the latest act of those worthy brethren? Me-
thinks 't were well an you were rather more attentive to
England's concerns than you now are, if that were pos
sible," returned the royal auditor.

Prithee, my liege, inform me," whispered the
bishop hoarsely; for Jocelyn had a habit, uncomfort
able to himself, of taking his own affairs very seriously.

" Why, 't is merely this, good friend : rumor — in
the right comely shape of De Briwere of Bridgewater, in
Somerset — hath it that the good monks of Glastonbury
Abbey, being long since troubled at soul with the merry
government of their excellent prior, have at last taken
unto themselves an abbot to enforce their prayers. One
William Vigor, — an I mistake me not, — a worthy fellow
and right well named, is abbot now. And verily I
cannot in conscience say that I do greatly blame the
brethren. A country without a king, a see without a
bishop, an abbey without its abbot — all of these are
bad. But, to carry the matter just a trifle further, and
dream of Christendom without a pope, — what is thine
own idea of paradise, Jocelyn?"

On the bishop this last bit of royal melancholy was
lost. He stood quite still, staring at the King, his face
white, his hands shaking, mouthing with confusion and
anger, and caring not at all that the King watched him
with a covert smile.

" There be no lawful abbot of Glastonbury ! " he
bellowed at last, losing courtly control of himself.
" So hath Innocent of Rome decreed, and so shall those
damnable monks discover to their cost ! — Impudent ! —
Disgraceful ! — Blasphemous ! "

" Enough, Jocelyn. Whet thy wrath on some other

9!ocelttt of I3at^ 365

rock than that of the ancient abbey. In mine eyes those
monks have done right bravely and well."

Struck with a quick memory the bishop looked up,
and his manner changed. He was again become the
diplomat. " It grieves me that thine eyes should be
thus blinded, sire. An thy views should change 'twould
be to the advantage of England. Thou knowest well
how powerful were thine aid in this matter." These
words were accompanied by a glance which John
should by this time have known well enough to answer.
Instead, he continued to gaze in stolid calm upon the
dark little visage before him.

" It seems that thou dost forget our present impotence
in affairs of the spirit."

"Nay; there is no question of that, I do repeat.
The monks, if tho'u wilt remember, have long since given
their writ to trust to thee in all matters concerning their
ruling, and declared that thou, being nearer at hand
than the Pope, shouldst arbitrate 'twixt them and me."

uAy; that was before mine excommunication. But,
even were it not so, wherefore should I now depose a
most excellent and popular abbot to give that chair to
you, who, that you might use it, would needs have it
transported to Rouen?"

" That reason might I make most plain to the master
of the privy purse," ventured Jocelyn, cocking his head
a little on one side.

" Behold him in us," rejoined the King, politely.

" I had, then, dared — to hope — that a gift of a
certain collection of golden disks carved with a quaint
and well-skilled design might not be unacceptable to the
King our master," hazarded the bishop, with great
delicacy.

The King stared straight before him for a moment,
with a change spreading over his features. The
memory that there had been a time when he had shown
himself not averse to such underhandedness did not

366 aincanoni?et>

lessen his present disgust. Suddenly he rose to his
feet, and with that rising Jocelyn saw that his hope was
dead.

" My Lord Bishop of Bath and of Wells, you have
come hither with intent to bribe me, your King, to do a
dishonorable deed ; to continue a persecution begun
long ago, unworthily, by my brother Richard Rex, and
your predecessor, Savaric of Austria, upon a company
of simple and harmless monks. You and I, together
with the valued assistance of his Holiness, have, hitherto,
carried on the business right gallantly. But now hark
you, Jocelyn, the matter hath to my thinking gone far
enow. 'T is for the last time that you will bribe me to
do them injury. No longer will I listen to your whisper
ings. Get hence how you will, and as soon as you may.
I wish well to those whom you do hate. To the Pope
of Rome, who stops not at the poisoning of envoys newly
sent to him in faith, you had best apply for aid in your
intent ; but with me, John of England and Normandy,
you will deal no more."

With the last word of this impetuous and unwise
speech John fell back again upon his chair, scarcely
looking at the confounded man before him. In the
customary manner Jocelyn retreated from the royal
presence; and it was well that his courtier's training
had become habitual, for he never knew how he left the
audience-room that morning. One short half-hour later
he was back again in the priory; and John the out
spoken, now a little pensive in memory of his sharp
words, was coursing down the shadowy forest aisles,
with Salisbury and Fitz-Osborne on either side of him,
and the pack in full cry before.

Another hour passed, and the Bishop of Bath was
no longer furious ; he was beside himself with rage,
first against the King, secondly against the monks who
had dared defy his personality. His fit of passion was
truly royal. Indeed, at this time, it was a curious fact

of 'Bat^ 367

that because of the savage spasms of temper to which
all the Norman race, and John particularly, were occa
sionally subject, unrestrained rage had become quite
the fashion among people wealthy enough in furniture
to afford it. Therefore, to see my Lord Bishop flat
upon the stone floor of his cell, kicking crazily at tables
and stools, shrieking out oaths till his voice was gone,
and pounding the wall with his palms till they were
bruised and bloody, was a thing not quite so incompre
hensible as it would seem to-day. It was a more serious
matter, however, to calm down again. The Normans,
having an advantage in originality, possessed the power
to bring themselves up to sanity with a jerk, when
their wrath was expended. This being impossible to
temperaments of less sturdy nerves, quiet and mental
health could only be induced again by draughts, potions,
and artificially induced slumber. Thus it was almost
evening before Jocelyn was able dispassionately to re
gard the possible result of the news. By the time that
collation was prepared, however, he felt himself ready
to eat, and descended to the refectory with countenance
benign and a gentle laughter ready to come forth at
suitable moments. To the astonishment, and perhaps
not wholly to the pleasure of the self-sacrificing prior,
my lord had the graciousness to say that he would
deign to honor their humble abode by an unexpected
stay of three weeks or a month longer. For this conde
scension the prior, heroic in courtesy, returned suitable
thanks ; and afterwards, in calculating the extra expen
diture necessary for the maintenance of the visitors, he
discovered that the two priests who accompanied their
noble guest on his arrival, had mysteriously left the
priory.

Upon the very day of the audience, while at rest in
the forest at noon, the King told the story of the
bishop's discomfiture and his own amusement to the
little company of intimates who surrounded him. He

368

had no knowledge of what Jocelyn would do first after
reaching solitude, but was so nearly certain that his im
mediate impulse would be to set off for Glastonbury,
that he added that probability as a sequel to the little
tale. To his astonishment, however, the bishop stayed
where he was, apparently doing nothing more unusual
than shriving his soul in quiet and resting upon his
already well-filled record of tilts with the old abbey,
by remaining in isolation at the tiny priory of Caris-
brooke, where no jot or tittle of news from the outer
world would be likely to reach his ears.

In point of fact, Jocelyn was waiting for documents
from Rome, whither he had despatched his priests.
There were not a few awkward and disagreeable things
about having no recognized Archbishop of Canterbury
in England ; and the worst of these was that every
matter of clerical dispute must now be settled by the
Pope himself. The position for his Holiness was by
no means the simplest in the world ; but so thoroughly
did Innocent love work — this kind of work — that he
certainly showed small sign of interest or haste in get
ting Stephen Langton into the place that a man of
force would long since have won for himself. For con
sider carefully the fact that, in all these years of their
dispute, Langton had never once attempted to see the
King of England for himself, or made any effort to
prove to the world that Innocent Third and Philip of
France were not his eyes, his ears, and his tongue.
Poor figure-head ! What aimless barks have sometimes
gone floating on for centuries down the stream of
history !

But Jocelyn, though taught in the same school, was
not a Langton. He took pains enough, at least, over
his affairs. Just one month did he spend at Carisbrooke
priory, and a duller one he had never known. He kept
every Cistercian hour; he conducted mass; he fasted
o' Fridays ; and he was carefully absolved of the sin of

3Ioceli?tt of OBat^ 369

having dared hold communication with one under the
ban of Heaven, King though that man was. Altogether
the month refreshed and fortified him for the approach
ing conflict. During that time he saw the King but
twice, and always at a distance. Each time had the
bishop frowned to think of the history of four fat bags
of yellow metal that had been destined for a royal
treasury, but now were gone to swell the magnificent
coffers of the Roman Vatican.

The priests returned from the long journey on the
eighth of October, bearing with them tattered gar
ments, certain parchments valuably sealed and signed,
and some excellent news. His Holiness had ceased
long enough from his plans for the betterment of the
universe to gaze with unprejudiced eyes upon the four
bags, and then to listen with pleasantly prejudiced ears
to the tale of the glaring fault of which the monks
of Glastonbury were guilty. When he learned of Joce-
lyn's cautiously expressed wishes, he had the goodness
to look very complacent. He spoke a great deal to the
two priests in Latin phrases so learnedly polished that
the poor fellows did not understand many of them.
Their gold had been accepted ; his Holiness had smiled,
as was his wont; and they had departed with those
papers which undoubtedly contained everything that
could be desired for the abasement of the monks and
the aggrandizement of Jocelyn's fortune.

Eagerly did the bishop open his precious parchments.
The first one satisfactorily reduced William Vigor once
more to common monkhood. The second rebuked the
brotherhood in words as stern as they could be made,
and forbade the election of any further abbot without
the previously obtained consent of the Pope. Here
Jocelyn laughed aloud, and quickly took up the third.
Doubtless here his power was unmistakably increased,
and set forth. The third paper greeted the Bishop of
Bath, extended to him thanks for his speedy action,

24

37°

and specified penances which should absolve the monks
from the consequences of their sin. That was all. Ye
saints ! No abbacy nor any hint of it for Jocelyn !
It was utterly incredible. The returned priests were
called, questioned, and furiously upbraided. Notwith
standing this, they had nothing further to tell. As the
documents showed, they had put forth the pleas as
ordered; they had received the most courteous of
replies ; they had taken all the papers given them, left the
gold, and returned as speedily as ship could carry them
to their master. There was nothing more to be said.
Jocelyn spared himself another attack of temper, gave
the priory his blessing, and, in company with his priests,
turned his face to the north and set off, over land and
Channel, toward Glastonbury. In Jocelyn's pouch were
the papal letters, and in his heart was the fire of a firm
resolve. So, upon the third day, the three of them
entered the vale of Avalon.

This was upon the eleventh of October, a Friday, and
a fast-day at the abbey. William Vigor, having re
turned that morning from one of his country-seats, and
being somewhat weary, had hastily conducted sext,
hurried through dinner, and then retired to his apart
ments. Here, also, lamentable to relate, Prior Harold
and Joseph Antwilder, coming to discuss with the abbot
some necessary improvements for the Longland farm,
aided their eloquence with the contents of some finely
cobwebbed bottles, discreetly carried to them by Vint
ner himself. Before recreation was half over Harold
had become foolish and Antwilder was volubly quar
relsome. Though William Vigor's brain was stronger,
he, in another half-hour, was not himself. Himself
could realize that. His mind was misty ; and memories
of common things would start suddenly into it and
shock him by their wanton appearance out of space.
But he could still speak with something of his usually
clear accent, and, with a little care, his sentences were

3!oceliw of I3at^ 371

parsible. Though he would not have tried to walk
overmuch, he could stand perfectly, and a few steps
did not annoy him.

There were some good stories told and a toast or
two drunk in the abbot's room. Two of the party
tried singing, but William quickly put a stop to that.
He did not choose that the brethren should have their
recreation hours disturbed, he said. But recreation
was somewhat more than half over now. The mon
astery was quieter than it should have been on an
October day, when blood runs like wine in the veins
and men's voices ring clear. It was still enough so that
hurried steps along the stone pavements came dis
tinctly to the abbot's ear and he was expectant, when
William Lorrimer, without even a knock of courtesy,
hurried into the room.

" My Lord Abbot ! My Lord Abbot ! " gasped the
old man, looking about the disordered place in utter
dismay.

" S — speak, William ! What would you? This is a
right bold intrusion."

" Oh, pardon, pardon, Lord Abbot, but the Bishop of
Bath is at the gate ! He would see thee, he saith ; and,
sith he asked for my Lord Abbot, it would seem that he
must indeed know the secret of the election, and — "

" Peace, William ; peace," came a clear voice from
behind the lodge-keeper. " Come, get the prior and
Master Antwilder away from the room at once, while I
— Nay; it were better that my Lord Abbot should
receive the bishop in his bedchamber, perchance. This
place is too disorderly to be straightened in a moment."
So spake Anthony, who, either by a miracle of fortune,
or more likely by his own good sense, happened to be
upon the spot at the moment when he was most needed.
Under his direction, an interval of only three minutes
elapsed before Harold and Joseph had started on their
uncertain way back to the prior's rooms, William Vigor

372 2Jncanoni?e&

was seated in his bedchamber, ready to receive the
guests, and Lorrimer was despatched to fetch them, with
all courtesy, into the abbot's presence.

Vigor knew very well that the impending interview
was to be a crisis in the history of the monastery ; and
he also realized dimly how totally unfit he was to con
duct his side of it unaided. He stared for a moment or
two at Anthony, who had started to leave him, then
said, as imperiously as he was able : —

" Stay thou here with me, Fitz-Hubert. Let naught
drive thee from my side. I tell thee that thou art
Glast-t-onbury's hope to-day."

Anthony nodded, but did not speak. He knew the
abbot's exact condition, for there were few monks in the
abbey that did not, that afternoon ; and he was aware
that some one should be by his side for the next half-
hour. But he did not relish the idea of being himself
the one to bear the brunt of Jocelyn's wrath, and, at
the same time, have to conceal as best he could the im
potence of him whose place it was to conduct the
entire matter. However, for the honor of the abbey
which he despised, for the mission of the King to which
he was indifferent, and thirdly, and more than all, for
the sake of the friendship which William Vigor had
once offered him, he determined to stay; and stay
he did.

Presently voices and the sweeping of garments be
trayed the approach of the visitors. Anthony was
already standing. William Vigor rose, carefully, and
advanced toward the door, which he had not reached
when Jocelyn stood before them. Anthony searched the
bishop's face. It was as impassive as a strong will could
make it. Indeed, that very impassivity gave the monk
a clue as to the state of mind of William's opponent.
There was evidently to be a fierce fence of words be
tween them. Now solemn greetings took place, — studied
courtesy on the part of Jocelyn, nervous stiffness on the

9Ioceltn of isatlj 373

part of Vigor, who dreaded, even more than the loss of
his abbacy, the discovery of his condition by the bishop.

" In the name of the brethren of Glastonbury, my
lord, I bid you welcome here."

" In mine own name I thank you for that welcome."

" Dominus vobiscum."

" Gratias. Pax vobiscum."

" Be seated, my lord. Refreshment shall be brought
at your command."

" Nay; I eat not between dinner and collation. We
must needs converse now ; for, in truth, there are like to
be grave things said. My two attendants, however, will
await me in some part of the monastery. Perchance thy
lay-brother here will show them to the day-room."

" An it please you, some other, better qualified for
their entertainment, shall do that," returned William,
hastily touching a gong. Presently the two priests,
still standing awkwardly in the doorway, were ushered
away by young John Waterleighe, who was fortunate
enough to have been first to answer the gong, and
so obtain a coveted glimpse of the bete noire of the
abbey.

The priests gone, Anthony crossed quietly to the
door, and closed it. Then, returning, he passed to the
farther side of the room, and stood at the fireplace, where
his own figure was in shadow, while he could see every
change of expression on the face of the bishop, who sat
at a table, across from the abbot. Jocelyn laid aside his
hat and began slowly to draw off his embroidered
gauntlets.

" It were better, William Vigor," he said, " that we
discussed certain matters in private."

William hesitated for just the shade of an instant, and
then, with quite as much calmness and even more suave
courtesy than the other, he answered : " We are quite
alone, my Lord Bishop."

Anthony, in the corner, nodded to himself, not at

374 2Jncattoni?et)

Vigor's words, but at his manner of saying them. He
became easier as to the possibilities of the interview.

Jocelyn waited a little longer than had his opponent,
then gave up this first point with a very good grace,
remarking quietly, as he flicked the table-leg with his
riding-whip : " So be it. And now, Brother William,
to our business."

What that business was each man was perfectly aware,
and aware also that the other was not ignorant. Thus
the mutual understanding was perfect. So far Jocelyn's
extreme mildness had been remarkable, and was, to
Vigor's thinking, rather a bad omen. The bishop, in
deed, had made within himself a firm resolve to get all'
the enjoyment possible out of the forthcoming blow
that he was to deal, and perform his coup de grdce
without any undue violence. Finally, when all mental
preparation for the conflict had been made, in a salute
of indifferent phrases, the match was opened warily :
Jocelyn and William face to face, with Anthony's eye
close upon his principal, ready to strike in his own
thought should the bishop's tongue for a moment baffle
William's guard.

" Since last I sojourned here, Master Vigor, I perceive
that many changes have come upon your house."

"Even so, Lord Bishop. We all deem Glastonbury
much improved."

" Erstwhile, good brother, I was the guest of your chief
officer here, — Harold, the prior. Is't then no more the
fashion for him to receive visitors of rank?" Jocelyn
thought here to bring the interview to a short climax by
forcing Vigor to proclaim himself abbot at once.

It was either remarkable dulness or else unusual wit
that made the former sub-prior answer, with mild sim
plicity: "Well surmised, indeed. It is no longer our
fashion that Harold should entertain the guests."

" It seemeth also somewhat new, William Vigor, that
thou, who wast ever formerly absent from Glastonbury,

3Ioceli?n of iBat^ 375

shouldst be here to-day; and shouldst, moreover, re
ceive me in the abbot's rooms."

" Chance, indeed, brought us together here, since I
returned from Venningwood but this morning. As
suredly ye know that ofttimes I must be here, — if for
naught more than confession. As to the rooms " —
here Vigor stumbled dangerously, and Anthony, while
Jocelyn glared at him, moved quickly and quietly
toward the table, — "a — as — as for these rooms, an
ye like them not, I will order the chamberlain to prepare
others for you. We had thought to honor you with
these."

Anthony here sat down at a little distance from the
table, upon a stool that stood just behind the abbot.

In reference to the rooms Jocelyn saw an excellent
opening, and he seized it accordingly. " Nay, these
suit me well. I was but wondering how you chanced to
select them for me, sith you could scarce know the news
I bring, unless, perchance, his Holiness might have
written you what I did, by great ill-luck, mislay in
Rome."

Anthony's head turned a little, and his eyes rested on
the bishop's face. Seeing its expression, he started.
Here, indeed, was much to read, and there was presently
to be much to hear.

"Concerning what might his Holiness have written
us?" inquired William, in a troubled tone.

" T was but a thought of mine that perchance he
might have chosen already to inform the brethren of
the new favor that he hath deigned to grant me."

" We plead ignorance i' the matter." It seemed all
that one could say, here.

"Indeed? Then must I myself inform you that
Innocent Tertius, in order to contradict a strange rumor
concerning an already elected abbot of this abbey,
hath been so good as to appoint me, Jocelyn of Bath,
head of Glastonbury."

<Kncanoni?et>

This was Jocelyn's daring stroke.

William Vigor rose quickly to his feet. His face
was bloodless. Twice he paced the room, fairly stead
ily, trying to force his mind to action. The bishop
would have given much to have relaxed a little himself,
here, and let his emotions come out upon his face for
one brief moment of rest. But there sat Anthony, ap
parently undisturbed, his black eyes still travelling the
bishop's face, his thoughts flying. And Jocelyn had
too much pride to show any sign of discomfort in such
a presence. After a moment or two William, having
struggled vainly to regain coolness, came back and
reseated himself. But that he was unable to cope
efficiently with the situation was apparent at a glance.
It was with a gesture of despair that the abbot turned
to Anthony.

The look that he gave him, though he said never a
word, was enough. Anthony saw at once that he was
sobering rapidly, and that with the passing of the
temporary stimulus of alcohol, his brain was far more
feeble in its action than it would have been had he
taken no wine at all that day.

It was the bishop himself, who, guessing the situation,
and thinking to be superciliously magnanimous in his
power, helped the abbot out of trouble. Looking
Anthony in the eye, he said compassionately : —

" Thou 'rt not well to-day, Master Vigor. It were
better, methinks, that thou shouldst rest on the bed
yonder while I finish the conversation with this some
what froward monk."

For a moment William was half inclined to act upon
the suggestion, for his head was reeling. But, with
a strong effort of the will he straightened up, and moved
his stool so that Anthony might be beside him. Then
silence ensued. Fitz-Hubert was evidently expected to
speak.

" A moment agone, my Lord Bishop, thou didst

3loceli?n of I3at^ 377

mention that a certain rumor, reaching the ears of the
Pope, caused him to appoint thee Abbot of Glaston-
bury. Might we know the rumor in full?"

" Certes, certes, Sir Monk. I had but feared to
weary your ears with prosing over what ye already
knew. The rumor said that these good monks of
Glastonbury, left to themselves too long, had been un
wise enow to elect for themselves, unlawfully, an abbot ;
though having long ago, by papal Bull, expressly been
forbid so to do."

" Ah ! Strange as doth it seem, rumor for once did
speak not more nor less than truth."

William Vigor shifted restlessly on his stool.

Anthony continued : " Now, Lord Abbot, thou wilt
doubtless be gracious enough to show us those docu
ments pertaining to our reproof and thy promotion,
that we may, in faith, proclaim thee as our worthy
head?" Anthony's tones were so musically gentle as
to send William Vigor's heart falling in his breast.
Anthony was conspiring against him ! He had been
trapped ! And, at the same moment, Jocelyn was
thrown from his guard, and prepossessed in favor of this
black-browed fellow who was probably trying now to
get into his favor. Favor, at the present moment, was
well enough.

" Some papers of his Holiness have I here," he
answered pleasantly, pulling the papal writs from his
pouch and handing them over to Anthony.

The monk glanced first at their signatures, which
certainly were unmistakable ; for every churchman in
Christendom knew that hand. Then, quickly read
ing the three letters, he handed them over to William
Vigor, who perused them more slowly, and when he
had finished, leaned quietly over the table, burying
his aching head in his hands. Triumph gleamed from
Jocelyn's eyes. He smiled at Anthony, over the
lowered figure.

2Jttcanonf?e&

" Art satisfied? " he asked.

Only a murmur, but that unmistakably one of assent,
came from William, abbot no more. The bishop seemed
about to rise, when suddenly Anthony said, with sharp
directness : —

" Nay, my Lord Bishop of Bath and of Wells, I am
not satisfied." Vigor raised his head and listened in
credulously. " That these documents be right, and
what they say incontrovertible, I grant you. We must
needs forswear our abbot, take oath to elect none other
over ourselves, and do the penances for disobedience
herein proscribed. But thou, my Lord Jocelyn, art
not thereby abbot of this abbey. Rather, hear this :
until thou shalt bring from Rome the Pope's written
command to such effect, no man in this monastery will
hail thee as his ruler. Pronounce thine anathema an
thou wilt. Such things have been endured before.
But I make prophecy that, as thy predecessor, Savaric,
never won this place, so thou wilt also never gain it.
These abbot's rooms are not for thee ; and to-night they
shall be locked again."

Ceasing to speak, Anthony answered Jocelyn's glance
of fury with one of calm supremacy. William Vigor,
who had listened in growing amazement at his friend's
daring, was satisfied now. In large measure the dis
comfiture of the bishop atoned for his own loss. There
came to his mind Anthony's warning on the day of his
election ; and he marvelled anew at the monk's astute
ness. But the five months of his rule were not to be
regretted ; for they had been a time of unwonted pros
perity and contentment for the abbey and its remaining
lands.

By his long and troubled silence, Jocelyn admitted
his defeat. When he spoke again it was in a different
voice, one softer than that of his expected victory.

" Go thou, fellow, and assemble the brethren in the
great church. There, at once, will I read to them the

3loceli?n of I3at^ 379

words of the Pope. I charge you to see that these
penances be duly performed. I — I ride on again to
Wells this evening."

And so, once more, for the time being, the matter
ended. Victory could be claimed by neither side.
Prior Harold rejoiced a little, perhaps, at his renewed
power, and the rest of the monks groaned within
when they thought of the hours to be spent over extra
prayers before the next confessional. His lordship of
Bath, greatly reduced in apparent stature, left Glaston-
bury, in company with his two priests, three hours after he
had entered it, with his hopes of life-long abode therein
trampled beneath his feet. The scornful prophecy of
Fitz-Hubert came true. Jocelyn, like Savaric, his pattern,
never ruled at the abbey which he so long persecuted.

Somehow, however, this story spread abroad. It was
carried to Windsor, two weeks after its occurrence.
There the King, just returned from his hunting at
Carisbrooke, smiled broadly when he heard it, and
turned to his fair-haired brother:

" Will, whiles mine own mortification hath seemed
to me great past bearing. But to-day, — to-day I am
glad that I am not a bishop."

CHAPTER XXI

A FULFILLED DESIRE

FOR a fortnight after the visit of the bishop, the
abbey was a hot-bed of rebellious excitement.
There were speeches and discussions innumer
able ; but arguments were never heard. No two people
of the same mind can indulge in controversy ; and for
once in its long existence, all the monks in Glastonbury
were unanimous on a subject. The deposition of William
Vigor, the most universally respected and most heartily
liked of any abbot who had ruled there in fifty years,
was taken hardly by the brethren ; Harold himself feel
ing some regret at the thought that a cheery corner
and an open bottle in the abbot's living-room awaited
him no longer. William Vigor, while he ruled at all,
had ruled well. Moreover, he was by no means free
from those lovable faults of geniality for which a man
has ever been loved among men. He could drink as
deep as any warrior, tell a good story without hesita
tion, and join without a qualm in a rousing secular
chorus. He was open-handed and tactful; a good
friend ; an enemy somewhat quick in action ; but under
him mass and chapter were strictly conducted; and,
with his watchful eye upon him, neither farmerer nor any
lay-brother dared go beyond a reasonable limit of free
dom. Moreover, he was by no means ignorant. Though
never given to display, he was well versed in the scho
lasticism of his time ; neither conceit of Nominalism
nor heresy of Neoplatonism being unknown to him,
when a conversation turned upon such matters. And

a ifwiftUetj tytstivt 381

now this unusual abbot of Glastonbury had suddenly
become but a common monk. To him not even the
privileges of a scribe were granted ; and from him friar's
orders had been removed until such time as his full
penance for the sin he had dared commit should be
made, and his absolution performed. For a time, on
this account, Vigor became so moody and quick of
temper that none in the whole abbey, except, perhaps,
Fitz-Hubert the silent, dared to address him on any
common topic.

Time passed, and the month of November entered into
the present. On the seventh day of the month Anthony
came back from Bristol, and left his saddle for a bed in
the infirmary. All the monks knew of his sickness, and
mentioned it, possibly, in the lavatories. But no one
except the doctor saw him, and none but Philip asked
to see him. To his surprise the gentle scribe was
forbidden to enter the sick man's cell. He was told,
however, that it was nothing more serious than fever ;
accepted the fact without much worry, and continued
to labor in the scriptorium. Week followed after week,
and still Anthony was not fit to rise. There was, it
seemed, nothing at all dangerous in his illness. Never
was his fever critically high; never did it perceptibly
decrease. He was bled freely and with great frequency,
and was fed solely upon broth. Once or twice, for no
weighty reason, he was given emetics, and was blistered
upon the back. Here the monastic physician, Henry
Fitz-Lucy, rested upon his labors, and marvelled at the
stubbornness of the case. He was, nevertheless, not
at all unkind to his patient; and, after informing the
confessor that the sick man was really unable to attend
any service held in the infirmary, also took pains to
contradict the rumor that Anthony was possessed of a
devil.

Fitz-Hubert himself was not unhappy under the
novelty of illness. He was too weak to chafe at inac-

382

tivity ; and the fever sent him sometimes just sufficiently
out of his head to allow the most exquisite of visions —
that of his Princess — to visit him as a reality. Occasion
ally he would crave food or water when none was within
reach, and nobody at hand to bring it; but at those
periods he was patient. Long years of abstinence and
privation, while they had sorely weakened his constitu
tion, had greatly fortified his natural power of endur
ance. Besides, it was never difficult for him to fall asleep.
To sleep soundly was something that he could not
do ; but his life as an invalid gradually became so full of
dull visions and oft-recurring dreams that the little cell
became at last a heart-home that he dearly loved. Daily
he counted the great gray blocks arched above his
head, and receding into shadow up on high. Minutely
did he study the grain of the stone, and note the innu
merable sparkles of mica that responded bravely when
ever the white winter sunshine deigned to enter his
little window. And he learned every stage of shadow
cast upon the floor, from dawn till dusk, by the prie-
dieu in the corner. There was much companionship to
be found in this solitude. There were the voices of con
valescing monks, who chattered in the day-room beside
the chapel (for the infirmary was a very complete little
establishment in itself) ; and there was the crackling of
the open fire, whose shadow he could see in the corridor
outside his room ; there was the low chant of prayers,
which, for three hours a day, reached his ears ; the rus
tling of the bare tree branches outside his window ; and
the soughing of the wind about the little building; lastly,
at various intervals of the day, but most beautifully of
all in the dusky twilight of winter afternoons, came the
melodious message of the monastery bell from the great
church tower.

Many days went by, slowly at first, and then more
rapidly, as he fell into the ways of sickness. Just at the
beginning he had confused time, and often jumbled day

with night. But as the weeks passed he grew to learn,
almost in delirium, the significance of each special hour.
The date for his monthly visit to Bristol came round
again. Over this he worried incessantly, but said never
a word of his trial to the doctor. Restlessness preyed
upon his brain, till the questioning face of Eleanor
seemed continually to beat through every pulse. He
was quite helpless. For the first time he had failed her.
Would she miss him?

At last, despite the incredible foolishness of its treat
ment, the fever began, by degrees, to leave his body,
and now and again he would feel that the spark of vital
ity was glowing brighter within him. He became irri
table ; and the doctor had had at least experience enough
to know that this was a favorable sign. One morning,
therefore, he informed his patient that that day, if so he
chose, he might see his friend, the monk Philip. An
thony did choose, with alacrity; and, as soon as the
recreation period came round again, Philip made all
haste to the infirmary.

Anthony, knowing of course the hour when he would
come, had made what preparation he might to receive
his guest. Owing to the neglect with which he had
been treated, the blisters upon his shoulders were not
properly healed, and now his whole back tortured him
at times with stiffening pains ; his limbs, from long dis
use and want of rubbing, were as useless as sticks, and
there was a fire in their every joint. With the greatest
difficulty, then, after his noon meal, Fitz-Hubert rose,
washed, made what toilet he could, and smoothed over
the coverings of his hard bed ere he again crept into it,
exhausted. Presently, pulling himself to a sitting posi
tion, he thrust a pillow awkwardly at his back, and
essayed to sit up, supporting himself largely by his
hands. In consideration of his illness he had been
allowed sheets and tunic of linen, which, despite their
many weeks' usage, were still of a grayish yellow — a

384 2Jncanom?eti

color rather ghastly when closely considered. These
he drew high up about his neck and shoulders, until his
head only was apparent to any one in the room. So he
waited for his friend, minute after minute, in his weary
ing position, till time seemed to have ceased and eternity
begun.

Philip, more than ever anxious to see his friend again,
and consult him about an idea that had suddenly entered
his head, walked almost slowly over the frosty path that
led from the door of Joseph's chapel over to the infirm
ary. Being admitted there, he was at once directed to
the door of Anthony's cell. Upon the threshold he
stopped, with a start. He had caught sight of that
livid face that rose, with closed eyes, above the
sheets.

" God ! — Thou art dead ! " he cried.

The head was lifted slightly; there came a gleam
from two eyes that had not lost their fire ; and he was
answered by a smile.

"Thou art not? Ah! but thy face is terrible,
Anthony ! "

" Um. Thank thee, Philip. Tis a pleasant greet
ing, truly." Anthony's tone, however quizzical his
words, was not joyful.

Philip, with the ready tact which was not the least of
his qualities, instantly perceived Anthony's frame of
mind, and read in his face some of that craving for a
little kindness whic'h the sick man would certainly rather
have died than asked for. Quickly crossing the cell,
the visitor lifted a stool to the bedside, seated himself
thereon, and laid one hand gently on Anthony's shoul
der, struggling with himself, meantime, to overcome
the shock of his friend's appearance. At the first touch
Philip felt the straining of Fitz-Hubert's arm, and per
ceived that he was using what little strength he had to
support himself. Therefore, gently, he took the invalid
about the shoulders, laid him down upon the bed, placed

a tfulfilleti &t&iu 385

the straw-stuffed pillow comfortably beneath his head,
and arranged the coverings well about him. Anthony
smiled again, and kept one of the girlish hands in his.

" Truly, Philip, thou 'rt as gentle as any maid."

"Ah, Anthony ! They told me not how ill thou wast.
Would that I might have been here with thee ! Thou
hast suffered deeply, hast not? But indeed I need not
ask ! "

" Thou 'It soon have learned for thyself," was the
answer; for Philip seemed unable to turn his eyes from
the gray, emaciated countenance of the man whom he
had last seen six weeks ago in the full vigor of health
and eagerness. " But verily, Philip, I have not greatly
suffered. Lately, indeed, the time hath passed full
slowly. Yet I tell thee truly, unhappy I have not
been. Am I so greatly changed ? "

" A mirror will show thee," was the reply.

Then, for a little time, they sat silent, hand in hand,
while the thoughts of each, though they did not guess
it, strayed to the selfsame subject. Philip, however,
dared not speak directly. He could only hope gradually
to bring the conversation round to the matter before
his departure.

"Thou hast indeed lain here for a long time.
Christmas-tide once more approaches."

" Ay, I know it. Looking back upon it, Philip, time
hath sped since first I entered Glastonbury. 'Tis now
five years agone that I came hither from Canterbury.
Dost remember?"

" Remember ! Canst ask? Time hath gone well with
me, too, — yet not quite as for thee, Anthony;" and
here Philip sighed, not ostentatiously, nor with deep
sadness. Nevertheless Anthony read his thought.

" I have brought thee sorrow, Philip, and thou think-
est sadly over it. Believe me, I am not unfeeling. I
have grieved for thee. But had she stayed here,
brother, we know not but there might have been for

25

386 2lncancmi?e6

thee a greater sorrow than that of parting, and for her,
a life-long — "

" Anthony ! " interrupted the other, flushing with
anger.

" Take it not so. I speak not of thee, but of others.
I spoke of them to you long ago. Forget not her
danger."

Again a pause ; and then Philip burst forth impetu
ously : " Anthony, dost remember, now more than a
year ago, the night of thy return from Winchester, —
our talk then, and thy promise to me that some day I
should see her for a last time? "

"I remember — ?"

" Wilt keep that promise, Anthony, — now? "

"Thou hast not forgot those words which David
Franklin, thou sayest, spoke to thee, that night?"

" I have not forgot," was the low-voiced answer.

" Yet thou art willing to endure the thought that a
vile tale may be spread, perchance?" Anthony's tone
was not deprecating, but anxious.

" I am willing, — willing to run the chance. But I
hope, Anthony, that this time it would not be regarded
so. Thou art ill ; — 't is now six weeks —

" Six weeks since the Princess was confessed ; and
they know that my custom is strict. I have thought of
that and more, ere this. My fear was that thou, still
sensitive, mayhap, at the memory of the precentor's
vice, might shrink from taking my place to Bristol,
since I am unable to go."

"Thou wilt then permit it ! " cried Philip, joyfully.

" Assuredly," returned Anthony, making an effort at
cordiality. He had not guessed that, much as he wished
some one to explain his absence for him, it would be
hard, most hard, for him to behold Philip, or any other,
even for this single time, taking his place in that beloved
journey. He was becoming selfish.

But o"f this feeling Philip, a little blind with anticipa-

a tfuifiiua 2Degire 387

tion, saw nothing. The hand of the elder monk he still
clasped tightly. " When had I best go, think you ? "
he asked.

" As soon as thou canst get permission. In another
month I shall myself be strong again. Art absolved?"

"But four days since. Harold, methinks, will not
prevent me, though William Vigor might so have
done."

" Didst take friar's orders ever?" inquired Anthony,
with an effort.

" Nay. But the law is no longer very strict. I fear
not that."

" Truly, thou 'rt right. The — law — is — " Anthony's
voice dropped away in a murmur, and Philip turned to
look at him. At once he sprang to his feet. Anthony
had fainted.

For five minutes the scribe worked over his friend,
frightened at the ghastly, death-like hue of his face.
Then, with a long, fluttering breath, the sick man came
to himself again. He smiled at the anxiety in Philip's
face. " 'Twas naught but that I had to sink again into
a dream. 'T is many a week since I have been so long
awake at one time. But thou, perchance, hadst better
leave me now, while I rest. Come to-morrow, to tell
me when thou dost depart."

A pressure of the hand, a look, and Philip turned
reluctantly about and was gone. Anthony lay quiet and
alone through the afternoon, his brain disturbed with
chaotic thoughts, doubts and fears. He failed to bring
his mind to any one subject, for weakness had tempo
rarily taken from him the power of concentration. The
night was long. At intervals he slept heavily, while
the remainder of the time was filled with hazy visions in
which the forms of Eleanor and Philip, Hugh de la
Marche and Isabella of Angouleme, were mingled to
gether, and melted rapidly from one into the other.

It was noon the next day when Philip returned to the

388

infirmary, bringing with him a doleful face. Anthony
saw it with an unaccountable little throb of relief at his
heart.

"They have forbidden thee to go?" he said at once,

Philip hesitated in replying, but fell, at length, from
his purpose, and told the truth. " They will let me go,
but not till the day before Christmas, sith that is a holi
day, and I shall be back ere the beginning of the long
mass. But it is still eight days hence, and by that time
thou mayest be able to go thyself."

The generosity fell to Anthony, now. " Nay, Philip,
I shall scarce be strong enough in eight days to go,
methinks. Thou shalt still take my place and I will
wait yet a little while."

" Thou art very good to me, Anthony. I have
guessed that Harold was not ill-pleased at the thought
of having me absent from the usual feast on Christmas
eve, knowing that I like not such revels, and therefore
easily granted me permission to go then, despite the
fact that I am a cloistered Benedictine."

" Yes ; doubtless the feasting will be high. Now for
thy journey, Philip. Thou must take my horse ; a good
beast, one who knows the way, and will go when thou
willst it so. Starting before lauds thou mayest reach
Bristol easily by noontide. 'T is a pity that thou must
return on the same day. But rest well at the castle ere
the homeward ride. Perchance thou wilt be called to
confess the prisoners of the keep. I know not as to
that At least, thou mayest bear the Princess news of my
sickness and say that ere another month be gone I will
come to her. Then thou wilt see Mary and hold thy
converse with her. Oh, be happy, Philip ! Thou hast
a very holiday in store- But there is — somewhat else
thou mightest — do — ' Here Anthony's voice dropped,
but it was evident that his thought was going on. He
lay with his brows knit together, and his eyes nearly
closed. He was debating with himself upon a subject

a fulfilled ^ejsite 389

which was burned into his life even more indelibly than
the little household of the castle. Could he trust Philip
to carry a secret message on the matter? That message,
if it could be sent, must be, and quickly.

" What wouldst have me do further? 'T is something
pertaining to those at the Falcon Inn? "

" Yes, Philip, — and yet I fear to have thee seen there.
There might be such dangers as have ofttimes followed
me ; and I have no right to throw them in thy
path."

"Dangers? What ones? 'Twill be in daylight.
Surely the hostel is of good repute, — harbors no
thieves?"

"Assuredly not. Wilt carry a strange message and
neither ask a question of him to whom it is delivered
nor yet brood over the matter in thine own mind ? Wilt
mention the matter to none in Glastonbury, and wilt
trust entirely to me, my friend?"

" Thou knowest best if ever I have betrayed thee,
Anthony," was the reproachful answer. " I know naught
of thy business at the Falcon Inn, but never have I
questioned thee or any other concerning it. An thou
darest not trust me now, I will say no more."

" Forgive, Philip ! Forgive ! Indeed, thou canst
know nothing of the great gravity of this matter,
which doth, in truth, warrant my care. An thou wilt,
then, take this message to the inn, — any one in Bristol
will direct thee to it. See the landlord, hight Master
Martin Plagensext, none else, and say to him that
Anthony hath been ill, and therefore came not upon
the seventh, as was his wont. But let him summon the
people for the evening of the twelfth day in the new
year. Dost understand?"

"To say to Martin, landlord of the Falcon Inn,
' Anthony hath been ill, and therefore came not on
the seventh. But let him summon the people for the
evening of the twelfth day of the new year/ " repeated

39°

Philip. Then, as Anthony nodded, he finished by say
ing slowly, " I will remember."

" Then go and finish thy recreation in some happier
place than by the bedside of a fever-stricken monk.
Thou 'It come once again, perchance, ere thou goest? "

" Not once, but eight times, — daily, until I depart.
And bless thee for thy kindness, Anthony."

To this Fitz-Hubert made no answer, but wearily
closed his eyes. Thereupon Philip rose, and went his
way.

During the week which passed between this conversa
tion and Philip's leaving for Bristol, Anthony gained
wonderfully in strength. On the twenty-first of Decem
ber he was allowed to leave the infirmary, the air of
which was now becoming hateful to him ; and he once
more entered his own cell at the abbey. Here he
found fresh rushes strewn over the usually bare floor,
and his mattress and pillow were newly stuffed with
straw. This was Philip's work. The sight of other
rooms and the freshness of other air acted also as a
tonic. He found no difficulty in being excused from
regularity at any service, however, and was allowed to
sleep all night without regard for matins, yet awhile;
since Philip was not the only one shocked at his appear
ance when first he came among the brethren again.
Anthony himself, indeed, having borrowed a mirror
from some cell of vanity, was astounded when first he
gazed into its steely brightness. He had not been a
strong-looking man since the days of his first fasting
and privation in the monastery of Augustine at Canter
bury. His face was always pale, his body thin, and his
eyes deep-set and large. But now the ravages of the
long fever had made him look far more like a corpse
than one alive. His color was not white, but gray; the
blue veins on his temples were plainly traceable in all
their intricate enmeshment ; his eyes were like blazing
coals set in caverns within his head ; and dark streaks

391

circled the great hollows; there was not an ounce of
flesh upon his body ; his lips were bloodless ; his hands
made of bones and skin; his hair, grown out in all
its fulness, and entirely concealing the tonsure, was of
purplish black, here and there streaked with gray. An
uncanny spectacle, the spirit of 'a departed monk, was
Anthony Fitz-Hubert at this time. But at sight of
himself he laughed heartily, proving that there still was
in him more of life than of vanity. So, at last, the eve
of Christmas stood again upon the threshold of Time,
and Philip, high-hearted, left the old abbey on his frosty
way to Bristol town.

Imagine that ride. It was the first time in seventeen
years that Philip of Glastonbury had sat a horse ; and,
since the departure of Mary, he had scarcely set foot out
side the abbey walls. His heart was burning with the
anticipation of a happiness so long dreamed of that he
had never hoped truly to call it his. He was to see
Mary again, and for twelve hours he was his own master.
Freedom and love! Asks any man more than this?
Men have so died for the one, and lived for the other,
that they must, I ween, be called the elements of happi
ness in this world, and possibly in others.

The morning was gray and wintry; and the monk,
for all his scapular and cowl, none two warmly clad.
Besides this, he had eaten nothing since the evening
before, and had risen as usual, two hours after mid
night, for matins. Now, neither cold nor hunger did
he notice. Arrived in Bristol at a little before noon,
for he had ridden slowly, being strange to a saddle, he
thought first to deliver his message at the Falcon,-
which, after some blundering, he discovered. Those
words were faithfully repeated ; and yet it was impossible
to human nature that the monk should not have pro
nounced them thoughtfully, and noted with care their
effect upon the worthy landlord. For Philip, gentle
and true-hearted as he was, was still human ; and it was

not wonderful that he took somewhat to heart Anthony's
persistent want of confidence in this matter. Whether
he had any definite idea of the strange meetings which
he guessed that Anthony led here, is a more serious
question. -It involves the nature of a pure man's con
science. If Philip had any suspicion of heresy or sin
connected with the affair, it was then his obvious duty
to confess that suspicion, and so be absolved from all
taint of worldliness. But confession of anything in
regard to these meetings would mean disloyalty to a
man whom he venerated and loved. Thus the conflict
between doctrine and friendship was too powerful to be
coped with. In behalf of the one his bright face clouded ;
in behalf of the other — the message was delivered.
Then, once more, the joy and fear of anticipation came
back to him, as he rode over the drawbridge of Bristol
Castle and into its snowy courtyard.

To John Norman, who was all curiosity, he at once
explained the nature of his visit, and was led, without
delay, straight into the western wing, and up a little
flight of corkscrew stairs to the suite of the Princess
Eleanor. At the door of the living-room Norman
rapped stoutly; then, having a bottle and a friend
awaiting him in his lodge, he once more went his
way, leaving Philip alone for his farewell.

With realization shoulder to shoulder with him, Philip
began to shrink, unaccountably, from the prospect of
actually meeting, once again, that woman who had
now for years lived a very distinct life in his own
imagination. It was not Mary who opened the door.
When, at length, it swung open before him, he was
looking upon a tiny, shrivelled creature, lithe and
dark, whom Anthony had never described. Seeing the
strange face, she uttered a guttural exclamation, at
sound of which a man, who had been sitting at the far
end of the room, rose quickly, and, stepping forward
a little, looked questioningly at the new-comer. Then,

a funnies ^esire 393

also out of distant shadow, another woman came forth ;
a slight, delicate, girlish woman, with her white face
framed in slightly dishevelled masses of black, silken
hair. She was the first to address the monk.

" What is thine errand? Who art thou? "

" I come from Glastonbury, madam, on behalf of
Anthony Fitz-Hubert."

" Anthony hath not now been here in many weeks,"
answered the Princess ; seeming, to Philip's searching
eyes, to show little enough concern.

" For more than forty days he hath lain ill of a fever,
and finally bade me journey hither in his place, lest
you should wonder over his not coming."

" Truly I am much grieved to hear it," she responded
gently. " Hath he been in danger, and is he yet
recovering? "

" He hath, madam, been in the gravest danger, and
is not yet recovered," returned the monk, a little aston
ished at himself. He was incapable of analyzing that
instinct which made him wish to rouse in Eleanor
some more stirring sign of emotion than she had yet
displayed.

"Alack! Why hath he not sent to us before? I
would gladly have helped him an I could. Thou
hearest, Louis? Anthony, he who did so much for us,
is dangerously ill."

The gentleman who, up to this moment, had stood
motionless, listening, now came farther forward. Philip
could not but like the strong beauty of his face and
form. " Is there aught that we now may do? Helpless
as we are here, it were di — "

" Nay, my lord. He is well tended at the abbey.
I but came hither to tell you why he did not come ;
and — and — to take his place at confessional, did you
wish it."

Eleanor smiled faintly. " Thank you, good brother,"
she said. " I deem my soul still white enow to go

394

another month, till he be back again. Think you he
will be here by then ? "

" Perchance, lady," returned Philip, with growing un
easiness. He was beginning to wonder if it were possi
ble that he should be sent away without seeing her for
whom he had come.

As though she read his thought, Eleanor, at this
moment, spoke her name. " Thou shouldst now have
refreshment after so long riding. Mary shall get thee
some, and serve thee in mine own dining apartment.
Mary ! Hither ! "

Some one came quickly into the room through an
other door. Suddenly the world grew misty about the
monk.

" Philip ! Thou ! " he heard her cry, and then he
looke'd. It was the same fair, fresh face, but a little
older, a little more thoughtful than when last he had
beheld it. There were the same great blue eyes, swept
by the long, delicate lashes ; the same straight brows ;
the same free poise of the head upon its shoulders ; he
heard her voice, the same rich contralto that had rung
in his ears for so many years. She was here, before
him, now ; and yet his Mary, the old Mary, was gone.
Looking at her he could not find the change ; but, as
she regarded him, he saw the ivory of her cheeks grow
suddenly pure white, and the rose of her lips fade into
pallor. Then she spoke again, tremulously.

" Anthony ! Somewhat hath befallen him ! What
may it be? "

" He is sick of a fever at the abbey, and I, for once,
am come hither in his place."

" Sick of a fever ! Holy Mary ! But he will
recover, Philip ? "

"Doubtless," was the answer, given in a tone so
hoarse that the Princess looked at him curiously, and
Mary came to herself a little.

" And thou, — mine old friend, — I am glad to see

a tfuifiuea a^ejStre 395

thee again," she said, holding out one hand, which the
monk just touched and then dropped.

" This good messenger is in need of refreshment,
Mary. I would have thee prepare some for him, ere
he returns again to the abbey. Thou mayest serve
him in mine own dining-room."

" Yes, madam," returned the handmaid, with a glance
toward De la Bordelaye, who had gone over toward the
casement, and stood idly looking out over the gray,
frozen yards.

Philip's eyes did not follow hers. Upon his outer
vision had come a sudden cloudiness ; but his inner
eyes at last were open wide. He saw what he should
have seen years agone ; and at the sight his heart was
breaking.

" Trouble not thy maiden, Princess," he said. '" It is
a fast-day, and I should not eat again till even-song.
After compline to-night the Christmas feast will begin
for us. I will make my departure now."

" Prithee, Philip, stay and eat a mouthful. Most
assuredly 't will be forgiven thee," said Mary, pleadingly.

With renewed hope Philip looked into her face. It
was still pale with unspoken anxiety.

" Thank you ; I must not eat," he repeated dully.
Then with an obeisance to Eleanor he turned toward
the door.

Mary followed him. In her heart there was a great
longing, which she must satisfy. "Philip! — Philip,
tell me truly if Anthony will get well again."

" How should I tell you that, being not God," he
returned.

Mary paid heed to nothing but the words. " Hath
he not gained in health? Is he no better than erstwhile?
He grows worse?" she demanded.

Philip drew a long, gasping breath, and returned to
himself again. With a look in his eyes that would have
pierced the heart of one who loved him, he answered

slowly: "He is better; he is now nearly recovered,
Mary. Tell the Princess that upon the twelfth day of
the new year he will be here again."

Then, with Mary's first cry of heedless delight pound
ing in his ears, he flung open the door, ran down the
passage and stairs, and, before Mary knew what she
had done, was away from the castle, spurring Anthony's
horse, like one demented, up Somerset Hill.

Never afterwards could Philip recall any incident of
that homeward ride. There was in his heart such a
pitiful tumult of broken passion, hopelessness and grief
that the acute, unendurable pain all came later. As yet
half of him still refused to accept the revelation. He
had been so devoted in every thought, every hope,
every dream, to Mary that the idea that a living love
was, to her, dearer than a memory of him, crushed him.
Why had he never thought of this, never guessed what
might come? And yet, — could one be jealous of
Anthony? Ah! Anthony himself had known many a
heartache as bitter as this. The Princess had shown
even less feeling for Anthony than had Mary for himself.
Philip could not find it in his heart to feel differently
toward his friend. Throughout his utter disappoint
ment it was against Mary and for her that his woe was
felt. She, his idol, had shattered his idol. He could
not yet define his position. He only knew that his
world had fallen from him, and that he was desolate
in space.

It was still early in the afternoon when Glastonbury,
but nine little hours older than when he had left it, came
once more in sight. Arrived at the great gate, Philip's
steed, well-trained, would have paused. The monk,
however, pulled at the reins, stuck his heel into its
flank, and set off again at a quick canter, not along the
road, but over the barren fields toward the spot where
memory was bitterest. It was nearly four years since
Mary and Philip had stood together at the historic

a fulfilled ?^e0fte 397

tree; and now in December, as then in May, its gnarled
branches were soft with blossoms.

No one at the abbey had seen Philip pass by, though
the usual hour for recreation was just over, and nones
should presently have begun. To-day, being the day
before Christmas, the ordinary routine of afternoon
was changed. From dinner to compline no service was
held. This was so that preparation might be made for
a night entirely without rest. After an early compline,
the fast-day being over, it was customary to fill in the
hours up to midnight with an authorized feast. At
midnight the first of the extra masses began, and from
that time until the evening of Christmas day it was
not usual to give any one permission to leave the
church.

All through the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, then,
the abbey was very silent. The monks knew well, by
repeated experience, that their endurance was to be
taxed to the uttermost, and almost all had retired to
their cells to sleep. The day was very cold, though it
did not snow, and occasionally there was in the air a
gleam of weak, white sunshine. In the day-room a great
fire blazed, and about it hovered two or three thinly
clad brethren, who dared not face the temperature of
the unwarmed dormitories. The scriptorium was empty,
and in the library was but a single man. This was
Anthony, who, well enough now to leave his bed for
several hours daily, and yet not strong enough to take
part in the vigils of Christmas day, had sought to forget
Bristol, and Philip's happy journey, in the " Consolation
of Philosophy." He sat in a far corner of the library,
far from the unglazed windows, with a ponderous tome
on his knees. For two hours or more he read with
earnest application. Then, by degrees, as the early
twilight fell, and the letters blurred a little, he sank into
a revery that would be held at bay no longer. A little
warmth from the day- room fire reached him. His

fever was quite gone now, though there was as yet no
strength in his emaciated body. Perhaps with the dim
light and the comfort of peopled solitude he grew
drowsy at last. At all events his mental images became
more and more shadowy; and finally the transparent
lids, with their black fringes, fell over his eyes, and his
breath came deep.

He was awakened by a light that shone upon his
face, and by the consciousness of some near presence.
Sitting suddenly straight, he was, for a moment, over
come by the sensation of deathly faintness sometimes
resulting from an unfinished nap. The other monk,
having heard nothing, did not stir. He sat with his
back to Anthony, at one of the reading tables in the
centre of the room, with a little pile of illuminated
manuscript before him, which he was earnestly perus
ing. Night had fallen by this time. The windows
were black ; and the only bit of light in the room came
from the lantern which stood on the table beside the
new-comer, making him the most distinctive object
present. Anthony knew him at once from the painful
unevenness of his shoulders. It was David Franklin.

Rising at last from his stool, Fitz-Hubert started noise
lessly toward the door. Before reaching it, however, he
remembered that the book which he had himself been
reading must be returned to its place if he did not
wish to say an extra Pater Noster for carelessness.
The volume had slipped from his lap and lay on the
floor beside the spot where he had been sitting. Turn
ing about again, he chanced to look across to where the
precentor sat. His eyes passed over the gnarled face,
which was fixed in an ugly little grin, then dropped to
the sheets of vejlum on the table before him. Instantly
he grew rigid.

" David Franklin ! "

The precentor sprang to his feet, for the first time
aware of Anthony's presence. Quickly bethinking him-

a iffulftileD ^ejsire 399

self, he edged about, so that his figure hid from view
that matter with which he had been occupied.

" What do you here? " he snarled.

" It is some hours since I came hither," retorted
Anthony, watching the face of his enemy. Franklin's
brows contracted still more, and he half glanced over
his shoulder. " T is a lie," he said.

" Canst see yonder stool in the corner? It is where
I slept till you came in."

As he wished, Franklin at once turned fully about to
see the spot to which he was pointing, and, the moment
that he moved, Anthony darted to the table and had
lifted the first manuscript that lay there on top of two
dozen others, similar to it in delicacy. In another
instant Franklin was beside him, speechless with fury.

Anthony had grown very white, and the vellum leaf
in his hand was shaking. For a moment that seemed
an hour, the two men stood a foot apart, glaring into
each other's eyes, the one in defiance, the other in
steady contempt. Then one of them said, in a voice
that was low but none the less striking : —

" Thou coward, — thou cur, — how didst obtain these
things?"

" I had not heard that you were confessor to me,"
was the return.

" You have stolen, for some foul intent, the dearest
possession of a fellow-monk. I, that monk's friend,
demand of you that you explain the act; and by
right of force shall I maintain my ground."

At these last words Franklin looked slowly and sneer-
ingly up and down the skeleton-like form, the wasted
arms, the livid face of the man who confronted him;
either forgetting or not knowing the fact that there are
times when the will can put brute force into a dying
creature.

" That is most excellently good, 'i faith ! Explana
tion ! And if I give it not? "

400 2Jncanom?et>

" I will to-night proclaim thee thief before the whole
assembled monastery."

" And I — Master Arrogance — spy — I will show to
all these disgraceful writings of your saintly Philip; ask
then if I have not right to obtain them how I may ;
and further tell to all how 'twas you who sent him off
to Bristol to his paramour — '

" Liar ! "

" — you yourself being too enfeebled, for the time, to
visit the so-called Princess, Eleanor, yo — "

One clenched fist shot suddenly out, straight and
strong, from Fitz-Hubert's shoulder. The blow struck
the precentor fairly between the eyes and, under its
force, Franklin fell heavily upon the floor of stone.

Anthony stepped slowly back, gave a great gasp, and
felt his knees shake under him. Reeling a little, he
turned to the table for support, at the same moment
turning his face toward the doorway. Within it, side
by side, both pale, both motionless, stood Philip and
William Vigor.

The monk gazed at them without flinching, a mute
inquiry in his eyes. Vigor knew the look, glanced
down at Franklin's figure, and bit his lip.

" I saw more than the blow. Thou hast not done
badly, Sir Firebrand," he said.

" Oh, Anthony ! " cried Philip, " I would not have
had thee take my part."

"No part of thine, — mine own honor I defended,"
returned the culprit, faintly.

Vigor strode into the room. ' " Man, thou 'rt all but
fainting," he said, putting an arm for support about
Anthony. " Was David so much fiercer an opponent
than a bishop? "

Anthony smiled. " 'T is but the accursed fever that
hath lain — so long — in my bones," he answered, with
an effort.

Philip quickly brought a stool to him, and his de-

a tfulftllcD ^egire 401

fender, having relaxed for a moment or two, sat up
again more easily.

" What's to be done with him? Verily, I shall spend
the next month in a dungeon," he remarked, pointing
to Franklin, who was still unconscious.

Vigor knelt beside the prostrate monk, lifted first an
eyelid, and then touched his pulse. "Twas a good
blow, but he could not so easily be killed, Anthony.
Thou shouldst have chosen one more tender. In five
more minutes he will be blaspheming again. Methinks
I can carry him to the dormitory, and bid him lie in his
cell for an hour or two ; and, I '11 warrant me, he '11 be
down in time for the comfits at the feast. Worry not
thy mind over the encounter. I '11 stand for thee i'
the chapter, an he brings complaint, which indeed I
doubt much. These things are not so uncommon either
in the world or in an abbey. Wait here."

With these kindly words, Vigor, a muscular fellow,
picked up his burden, which was, even now, beginning
to breathe audibly, and, not stopping for Anthony's
earnest thanks, departed from the room.

Fitz-Hubert drew a long sigh, and sat gazing into
the black scriptorium long after his friend had passed
through it out of sight. " It was a miracle that brought
him to the door," he said, contemplatively.

There came no answer. Presently a different sound
came to Anthony's ears. He turned sharply about.
Philip had sunk down on Franklin's seat at the other
side of the table. His head lay upon the sheets of
vellum whereon was written the first story of his heart ;
his fair hands were clenched tightly over the gorgeous
rainbows of blue and red and gold ; utter abandon was
expressed in every line of his figure ; and his slight
shoulders heaved, now and again, with a racking,
desperate sob.

Such was the evening of his day.

26

CHAPTER XXII

ROYAL VISITORS AT BRISTOL

IT was during the months of January and February of
the year 1213 that the most important scene of
the reign of John of England, Magna Charta not
withstanding, was enacted. It is the events in these two
months which give the strongest clue to the true charac
ter of that misunderstood government. They expose
the monomaniacal ambition of Pope Innocent, the utter
servility of his instrument, Langton, and the helpless
egotism of the King of France. Upon the twentieth of
January there was held in Paris a council, the nominal
heads of which were Philip and Stephen, and they had,
as passive and acquiescent abettors, those five English
bishops — dogs, let us say — who had now been waiting
for five years for one papal bone to be thrown to them.
But the bulldog who lived in a Roman kennel had a
large appetite, and not often anything left over that he
did not want. Thus the weak-witted dachshunds up
north had been, of late, much threatened with starva
tion. At last it appeared that a meal was to be given
them. Innocent had promised their good friend Philip
a very large bone, which he might, if he liked, divide
among his friends. This bone happened to be of such
masterful proportions, and was, withal, of such unusual
shape, that Innocent had spent five years now in trying
to get it into his own mouth, and at last was about to
relinquish the attempt. There were some who called
this bone such names as John, and England, which,
after all, meant the selfsame thing. And now the bull-

Bigftorg at TBrigtot 4°3

dog, his teeth aching disagreeably, turned over his im
possible meal to his dear and good friend the mastiff,
who really, about the middle of February, having strug
gled with it for some weeks, bade fair to swallow it
whole ; which act would doubtless have caused him the
severest indigestion. Providence, however, now mir
aculously animating the bone, prevented its sudden dis
appearance by causing it to flop once more over to its
former retainer, Innocent, who was pleased to have it
back, because he had thought of a new scheme for get
ting all the good out of it. In the manner of men
would he boil it down, extract its richness for a
soup, and leave the worthless substance itself untouched.
And this plan he did, at last, almost carry out; suc
ceeding so far as to have had every dog and every bone
of after generations take the original helpless plaything
to task for permitting itself to be so weakened in the
end.

Shortly, at that January council, the Pope authorized
Philip of France to take England's crown for himself.
Philip was delighted, and proceeded to collect an army.
With this he started, in the middle of February, to the
Norman coast, to meet further reinforcements, whence
he hoped to strike a quick and unexpected blow on
England. To his vast astonishment and chagrin, he
found, on reaching the coast, that he was facing another
army, that of England, which was encamped upon the
shore across the channel, fully advised of all his move
ments. It was not yet a large force, but, daily, addi
tional troops were arriving, and the English King was
moving heaven and earth — and men say that he
descended to Hades too — to add to his numbers.
Philip paused and wondered — who the carry-tale had
been.

The carry-tale was Jocelyn of Bath, still bent on play
ing a double game ; for some men, and all women, are
made that way. This time he had, indeed, heaped coals

404

of fire on King John's head. And his coals bade fair
for once to light a fire for himself. John almost re
pented of his harshness to the little man when he found
him still a kind of friend in the midst of his overwhelming
difficulties. The thought of Glastonbury, veiled with
impossible possibilities, came to him; and he let it
remain a while, and even uncovered and held it to the
light for Hubert de Burgh to look upon. De Burgh
examined it; considered carefully, and advised a third
pair of mental eyes.

It was on the night of the twelfth of March, I2I3,1 that
the King, travelling southward, arrived at Bristol, and
stopped for two nights in the castle where his niece was
imprisoned. Somewhat to his surprise Isabella of An-
gouleme took occasion to join him there, having trav
elled from Winchester with a small train. She was very
affectionate indeed. John wondered a good deal in
silence, then opened his eyes and jerked his head sud
denly. The shadow of the keep had fallen on him.
He thought that he understood ; and understanding
made him frown.

The King was wasting very little time in sleep, nowa
days. It was on the same night of his arrival at Bristol
that he laid the case of the Bishop of Bath before my
Lord de Burgh, who had hurried on from Dunster to
meet his liege.

" If you would know the feeling rife concerning him
i' the abbey," advised Hubert, " you could do no better
than summon from Glastonbury the monk Anthony."

" Aha ! Walter's son. I remember."

" Yes, your Grace."

" T is a good thought. Summon me a messenger."

A few words were written out upon a bit of parch
ment and addressed to Harold, prior of the abbey. A
few words were spoken to an obsequious serving man
by De Burgh ; and, two minutes later, a horseman clat-

1 According to the Tower Rolls John was in Bristol at this date.

at OBrigtol 405

tered over the drawbridge and cantered away into the
night, after the fallen sun.

There were myriad matters beside that of Jocelyn to
be discussed by King and friend ; and after the messen
ger had gone they still sat together in the lowering
torch light with no thought of bed in their brains,
though both had driven hard all day. The political
situation was carefully gone over ; plans were drawn ;
numbers of troops were calculated, and possibilities
reckoned, even as by two commanding generals in a
campaign of to-day. It was close on midnight before
they were interrupted.

John's surmise that it was for no love of him that his
Queen had come to Bristol was correct. His guesses
as to what she had come for were a little unjust, al
though the main point was right enough. Ever since
Anthony's visit to her the summer before, on behalf of
Eleanor of Brittany and her lover, the subject had been
one of maddening irritation to the passionate, southern-
born woman. Whatever she could do to prevent the
meeting of De la Marche and the Princess she had done ;
but, while they two were within the same enclosure, all
effort seemed as nothing. Therefore, hoping to have an
opportunity of speech with -the King after her own way,
she had come to Bristol. She counted much upon her
power of persuasion over him, and especially at night.
It is far easier to act well at night. But madam waited
long that evening for her spouse to visit her apartments.
Midnight came. It was an unheard of hour for staying
up at that age. Perhaps he had already retired, not
wishing to see her at all. At the thought her impatience
culminated. She resolved to go to him. Doffing her
daydress, she flung about her a loose gown of white
wool, heavy with embroidery. Her hair, uncoiffed, fell
in tangled waves half over her figure. Her eyes were
brilliant with sleep. Her appearance was singularly soft
ened by this carelessness of attire, and never, perhaps,

406

even in the days of her girlhood, had she seemed more
beautiful. So she sought her lord, who was, at that
moment, dictating to De Burgh figures relative to his
promised army. The tapestry hangings were slowly
pushed aside, and Isabella halted on the threshold.
Here she held her ground, albeit somewhat put out at
the presence of De Burgh, who, as she was well aware,
did not like her.

Hearing the little rustle, John looked up. Her ap
pearance took him totally by surprise, and for some
seconds he sat gazing at her silently. De Burgh, per
ceiving her presence, rose at once to depart.

" Sit you down, Hubert," commanded the King,
apparently unmoved by the vision.

" I pray you, my lord, let me have a word with you
to-night." She took one step forward, then stopped
again, her hands clasped before her, her whole expres
sion peculiarly pleading. She was a wonderfully good
actress.

The King looked down and bit his lip. He knew
that the prospect of further peace was not great. " Go
then, Hubert, and return in half a candle's length of
time," he said at last.

Hubert rose again, bowed profoundly, first to the
King, then to the Queen, and backed from the room.
John smiled. De Burgh was generally accustomed to
retire normally when he was alone. But as her hus
band turned toward Isabella once more, he was not
smiling.

"Now then, madam, your petition at once. Twill
be granted more readily an you omit your graces.
Truly England needs me more than you to-night."

She had come quite close, now, and was standing
over him, a lock of her hair finding resting place upon
his knee. This he lifted sententiously, and dropped
away. The action annoyed her, but at the same time
showed her her course.

at isrfjstol 4°7

" Then indeed I will be brief," she said. " My plea
is that you transfer the prisoners in the keep here to
another prison ; whether in England or in France I
care not, so they be removed hence."

The King glared at her in high astonishment. " Rest
assured, madam, that they will be as safely housed in
any other place as here. The Count de la Marche will
not be accessible to you while I live."

Isabella winced. Possibly a part of her hope had
been that her former betrothed might be lodged in
some fortress less secure than the impenetrable keep of
Bristol. However, she quickly recovered herself. " I
said naught of myself, Lord King."

" Then thy reasons, madam ; thy reasons for this
folly."

" My reasons are mine o — " she stopped. Why not
tell the King her reason? She began again, more
gently : " The reason is as much on thy behalf as on
mine own. Thou knowest that in this castle is housed
thy niece, Eleanor, sister of Arthur of Brittany. Well,
my lord, wouldst have two enemies to thy crown
united, — Eleanor, and De la Marche?"

"Ah! They have met?"

" Too often. They love."

The King eyed her closely. She did not flinch.
" Speakest thou truth, woman?" he asked.

" I swear it."

"Then, by God's blood, I grant your wish! They
shall depart, De la Marche and his men, for Corfe, on
the fourteenth."

"Why not on the morrow?"

John frowned and searched her face again. " So
eager? No. A messenger must first reach the castle
to have it prepared ; and a guard must be ready to
travel with them. They shall leave the day after."

" It is well, my lord. I thank you."

" Thank me not, Isabelle. I misdoubt me 't is a

aJncanonf?eti

sorry deed. Poor Eleanor! If 'tis true, I dare not
look upon her face. It would inspire pity."

" Pity ! For Geoffrey's daughter ? "

" Ay, pity. Ah, madam, if they but knew how
heavy is England's crown, there would be little strife
for it, I ween."

" Yet you fight well to retain it."

" To the death, with Innocent and Philip as foes ! "
He had spoken fiercely, but in a moment broke into a
short laugh. " Well, my Queen, go you to rest. You
win your plea, though I much misdoubt me that the
charge is founded on but slight suspicion. Depart
now. I have work to do."

Isabella obeyed him with a very good grace. She
had gained her point, and, moreover, she had not made
John as angry as she had feared to do. So, when at
last she had found a quiet pillow, sleep courted her, and
she accepted the suit.

As for John, he rested not at all that night; for,
when the will was with him, no man in England could
work like England's King. Hubert de Burgh remained
till dawn, and then was dismissed for an hour's slumber.

" I would have thee at hand when the monk comes ;
therefore to thy couch now. When he is announced I
will have thee called."

De Burgh, stupid for want of sleep, stumbled away,
while the King, still clear in mind and vigorous in
body, received his Earl Marshal and William Plantag-
enet, the lord high admiral. These two men were
to depart later in the morning for Dover, to relieve
Martin Algais, who just at present was in command
of both army and navy, since ships and men were
stationed side by side, the one on the waters of the
channel, the other on the downs beside the royal port.
At nine the two lords were dismissed with a plan of
action clearly mapped out for them, and writs and papers
of various authorities in their possession. Then at last

Bigitottf at TBtigtol 409

the King rose from his place at the great table, called
for refreshment, and strolled wearily over to the window
of his room, which looked down upon the court. Just
below him two horsemen, evidently newly arrived, were
dismounting. One of them wore the cowl and dress of
a Benedictine monk.

For the first time in his life at Glastonbury, Anthony
had had some little difficulty in obtaining leave for
departure to-day. His unpopularity was becoming
more marked than ever before, and his slightest move
was now vigorously censured by the majority of his
fellow-brethren. Besides this, however, the laws gov
erning all papal institutions were very strict regarding
intercourse with excommunicated persons. John had
been for three years excommunicated, and was known
to be unrepentant and generally sinful. Accordingly,
it were a sin for Anthony to look upon him as a man.
But John was not entirely man. He was something
considerably more than that, — a person with all Eng
land's crown jewels lawfully in his possession. Sup
pose Anthony, visiting him according to command,
should look upon him simply as a King, and then, to
be quite safe, suppose that he should previously do
penance for contamination, and, on returning, were
especially confessed and absolved ? To this very pretty
conclusion of a matter somewhat grave (for John was still
hot-blooded enough to be capable of having a discourte
ous abbey burned), Harold arrived by himself. Being
quite sober that day, he had the sense to call in no
monk to debate the point with him ; and so Anthony,
being told the prior's resolve, when first he came down
to lauds, smiled a little, saddled his good companion,
and was off down the familiar road, at the end of which
waited his King.

When John saw the monk in the courtyard just
underneath his window, with the morning sunshine
streaming down on him, and noted the extreme pallor,

410 ^ 2Jncanoni?eD

now habitual, of his face, the King called a lackey,
bidding him at once rouse De Burgh, and, furthermore,
do something at which the servant's eyes opened wide.
As he departed John seated himself again before his
work-table, whither presently was brought his morning
meal. He had not yet raised food to his lips, when the
first groom of the chambers appeared, announcing :

" My Lord de Burgh," then instantly afterwards,
" Anthony Fitz-Hubert."

The two men entered together ; the chamberlain dis
appeared and the King rose. To Anthony he extended
his hand. The monk took it upon the back of his,
bent the knee, and touched his lips to the gracious
fingers with as much ease and as little awkwardness,
in his coarse robes, as he had displayed long before,
when he was regarded as the most graceful youth at
court.

Hubert and Anthony had evidently met outside ; for
they only smiled at each other as John bade them
both be seated.

" We will delay our serious speech, gentlemen, till we
have all three broken fast. I have commanded refresh
ment for both to be brought hither, and after we have
eaten we shall hold converse together."

Anthony was surprised at the King's manner. Only
one who had not seen him in many years could realize
how much the royal ways of speech and address were
softened, and how near all those trials through which
John had passed had come to breaking the iron harsh
ness of his spirit. Fitz-Hubert had never dreamed of
obtaining anything to eat before the interview should
be at an end, and John's thoughtfulness touched him.
To tell the truth, he was faint for food, after his long
ride that had been begun before the dawn. All three
were, however, rapid eaters; and the King, who cer
tainly showed need of rest, was plainly anxious to have
the conference ended.

at iBrijstol 4"

When at last all had finished, and the last draught of
ale was drunk, the King pushed the dishes down to the
other end of the table, wiped his hands upon the com
mon napkin, and, after passing it to De Burgh, plunged
at once to the heart of the subject in hand.

" I would have thee tell me, Anthony, and, as thou
thinkest, truly, how Glastonbury would be like to' receive
Jocelyn as abbot?"

For the shade of an instant the monk hesitated. It
was a question so old that he had not expected it.
" Most truly, then, sire, methinks that one and all
would sooner break their vows than receive the bishop
as their head."

The King laughed, but not very pleasantly, while De
Burgh bent his brows together and frowned upon the
monk. Anthony was no whit disturbed.

" 'T was at least an answer to the point, a most
straightforward answer, Sir Monk," growled the King;
and Anthony smiled a little, inwardly, at human nature.
" Prithee, now, tell us why thou didst make it. What
crime hath Jocelyn of late committed?"

" Just this crime, sire, the one which may be least in
the calendar and greatest in a man's heart: he hath
lowered their pride. Jocelyn has continued Savaric's
-work of reducing the power, the influence, and the reve
nues of the abbey. Half the tithes that were wont to pour
into the coffers of the treasury from the richest lands
in Somerset find their way to-day to the strong-boxes
of Wells Cathedral and the bishop's palace there. For
this is Jocelyn hated at Glastonbury, and hate is a strange
passion, which mounteth higher day by day."

There was a moment's silence. Then De Burgh, see
ing that the King was not likely to speak again for
some time, tactfully introduced a variation of the
theme. " T is said that thou, Anthony, didst once de
feat the bishop's purpose of becoming abbot on his own
pretence."

412

Anthony flushed, but, chancing to glance at John,
was mightily relieved to behold that monarch grinning
broadly. Indeed, at last he burst into a hearty laugh,
which afterwards he explained.

" I can see him now, as he stood 'fore thee, all sleek
and fat with too much fasting, clad in violet, with his
orders about his neck, his little face crimson and like to
burst with very fury at thy over-sure knowledge, An
thony ! A pretty picture ! Would I might have been
there, though 't was but a month before that I myself
did see him so at Carisbrooke. Verily I would fain aid
the man, for he hath done me good service lately. But
the thought — thy father's spirit was upon thee then,
Anthony ! But now_ again, speak truly," here John's
face became serious, — " tell me what would hap in
Glastonbury were Jocelyn, a rightful abbot, with all
his papers duly signed and sealed by King and Pope,
suddenly to appear before your gates, demanding
recognition."

" What would happen? " Anthony sat thoughtfully,
with his right elbow on the table, his chin in his hand,
and his dark eyes resting upon a face in the tapestry
over his head. "What would happen, sire? This,
methinks. Even as once in Savaric's day they acted,
all doors and gates would instantly be barred before
the intruder. While food lasted would the monks de
fend themselves ; and this time, when it should be gone,
I ween they would all starve themselves into purgatory
rather than admit the bishop over them again. An I
may say it, my Lord King, the quarrel is too bitter and
too old a one to stir up in this new way. Hate begets
monstrous progeny. Beware lest it fall upon the body
of the Bishop of Bath. An it should happen so, he
would be a thing unclean."

The King stood up. Instantly the others imitated
him. John's face was not difficult to read. It was all
annoyance. " We thank you for your counsel, Master

at 'Btfjstot 413

Anthony, and we bid you adieu. Give our greeting to
Harold of Glastonbury, and thank him for delivering
you up to us for speech. Recommend him also not to
make your penance too severe. You are at liberty
to go."

Anthony bowed low and backed away. When the
tapestry finally fell before the sackcloth, the King turned
to De Burgh, whose eyes had followed the retreating
figure, and who was now, to tell the truth, a trifle
nervous.

" So, Hubert. What think you of the advice of this
most honest monk?"

" As honestly, good my liege, I believe he spoke
truth."

" Did ever a king get so much honesty of a morning !
And still you counsel me to hold to him? "

De Burgh bowed.

" Then, my lord," said John, sighing deeply, " I per
ceive that it will befall that I shall return to Jocelyn, as
favor for the work of his tongue, some several of those
fat and useful bags which erstwhile he did delight in
sending me."

And De Burgh, just then looking discreetly at the
King's eyes, ventured, successfully, to laugh.

On this morning of March thirteenth, Isabella woke
at an hour unusually late. Her toilet was accomplished
with much difficulty by her ladies, for the Queen was
strangely preoccupied, and deported herself like a doll
in their hands. Her morning meal, for which she did
not often descend to the great room, was carried to her
apartments in the south wing of the castle, opposite to
those occupied by her niece. Her bread, pasty, and
tumbler of sweetened, spiced milk consumed, the royal
lady called one of her demoiselles to her side, and gave
an unexpected command.

" Go thou, in company with a lackey, and greet from

4H 2Jncanoni?eD

me Princess Eleanor of Brittany, who is lodged in the
castle here, and request her attendance on me in mine
own rooms at once, if it please her to come."

It was a courteous message for Isabella of Angouleme.
She was not prone to gentleness as a means of obtain
ing a wish. But perhaps it was as well for once that
she should remember Eleanor's birth, and the humiliat
ing fact that it was far better than her own. At all
events, curiosity and jealousy combined to make her
take every means within her power to bring the im
prisoned Princess, whom she had never seen, to her
side. Isabella's purpose in the interview was as cruel
and imprudent a one as could be devised. Her man
ner, as minutes passed, grew more and more gentle,
cat-like, and bland ; and her ladies, when they saw her
face, thanked the fates that she was dismissing them
from her presence. They knew her expression of old.

Eleanor of Brittany had long felt toward her uncle's
bride a warmth of gratitude for having given her the
privilege which of late years was all that had made her
prison endurable. She had never understood the real
motive that gave her Louis de la Bordelaye for a compan
ion. To her it meant only the kindness and sympathy
of her aunt; and Anthony had never been willing to
undeceive her on this point. Therefore it was with joy
that she received the courteous message of the Queen,
and without hesitation obeyed her command.

Eleanor, followed her obsequious guides through the
long halls and antechambers with a sudden, pitiful
sense of what freedom would mean. Poor girl ! Never
before had she been beyond that isolated portion of the
castle where her own meagre apartments were situated,
except to descend the little flight of stairs that led to
the chapel which she used. It was a moment that
she never forgot when, her name and title being an
nounced, the last door before her was opened, and she
stood face to face with John's wife and Queen.

at isrigtol 415

Isabella was seated upon a low couch, toying with
a peacock's feather. As Eleanor came in she did
not rise. This little act of haughtiness annoyed the
Princess, and her salutation came very near to being
that which she would have given to an inferior. Isa
bella noted this at once and flushed. Certainly the
visit was not opened auspiciously; and the first un
pleasantness was increased when Eleanor, after her cour
tesy, stood perfectly still, studying the royal face, and
waiting for what was to come, with the kindness in her
heart neutralized by her aunt's present behavior. The
steady gaze from those large grey eyes was certainly
disconcerting.

" Be seated," said the Queen at last.

Eleanor sank down upon a stool, her dress falling
in perfect lines about her feet. Presently, with calm
deliberation, the Princess crossed her knees, rested an
elbow on the uppermost, and let her hand support her
chin. Her eyes were cast down, and she appeared to
be studying the rushes on the floor. Her long black
lashes swept her delicately flushed cheeks, and, if one
could forget the negligence of the attitude, her grace
was perfect. A man would have forgiven the pose
for the beauty. Isabella, being a woman, offended by
Eleanor's manner, felt her hate grow strong.

" Madam, I have summoned you hither that I might
inform you of a matter too trivial for the King to waste
his time upon. He intrusted the message to me.
Doubtless you would hear it straightway, that you may
return again to the side of your lover, — whatever you
did call him."

The sneer in this last sentence was so palpable that
Eleanor, out of sheer surprise, straightened into a more
royal attitude. Seeing the Queen's face, her wonder
grew.

" What is mine uncle's message to me, madam?" she
asked.

4*6

" This. Dost remember sending to me, more than a
twelvemonth since, a wandering monk, your so-called
confessor, to plead with me on behalf of the Count de
la Marche?"

" Not De la Marche, — the Sieur de la Bordelaye,"
responded the little Princess, quickly.

The Queen's shoulders went up. " As you will.
Keep up the lie if it please you. I say, De la Marche ;
for deceit and tricks of names like me not. Well, my
news is this. Upon the morrow, the Count de la
Marche, or the Sieur de la Bordelaye, or whatever you
would call him, departs hence, by royal order, to
Corfe Castle."

" Corfe ! T is well known to me. For two years,
at the royal pleasure, did I lodge there."

At last the Queen rose, dropping her feather, and
gazing anxiously into the girlish face. " Didst thou
not hear? Thy lover, De la Marche, leaves thee
to-morrow ! " •

Eleanor rose also, and answered the Queen's look,
eye for eye, with one of contempt such as only royal
children can give. " I hear you, madam. Is that all
your news? "

During a long moment there was complete silence.
Neither moved. The Queen, wretchedly baffled by
her opponent's stupidity, was showing her nature.
She searched for words. When they came at last, her
voice shook.

" That was all my message. Truly the King will
rejoice to hear that it has not hurt you. Adieu."

Eleanor gave a vague, meaningless smile, courtesied
slightly, turned her back on Isabella, and left the room.
She began the long walk to her own apartments rapidly,
and perhaps it was the stimulus of motion that brought
the first quiver of fear into her heart. What if this
strange Queen had spoken truth? What if not only
the Count, but also his gentlemen, were to depart to

IKoyal J&ijSftotsi at iBrfsitol 417

that northern fortress? What if she were to be left, —
alone? And this was as far as her mind went. She
strove to keep out the terror by increasing her speed,
and it was at a swift run that she finally reached the well-
known door. Flinging it open, she entered, panting.

Once upon the threshold, she started to call a name,
when her eyes met those of a man who stood confront
ing her at the far end of the room. He remained
there, motionless, letting her read his face. From her
parted lips came a sudden, agonized scream. It was
not fear, but certainty, which had pierced now into
her breast.

" Louis ! "

" Eleanor ! " He spoke the word faintly, but it was
none the less pitiful. Hearing it, she began to move
toward him. Her life, all the remaining, endless years
of it, — and she did not die young, — were crowded into
the twelve steps that carried her to him. He waited for
her, still, breathless, till one of her outstretched hands
touched his. Then he caught her convulsively in his
arms, and his head sank over hers.

" Louis, Louis, it is true ! It is true ! They will
take thee away. Oh ! How shall I live ! How shall
I live ! "

She spoke in French. In their common tongue he
answered her, two words, spoken so low that none but
her could ever have heard them. They came from the
depths of his soul.

" My wife."

She trembled a little in his arms, then lay quite silent
on the settle whither he had drawn her. Like one in a
dream she echoed him.

" Thy wife. Let it be so, Louis ! Let us be wedded
in the chapel, to-night, ere thou go."

He made no answer, and she knew that the wish was
also his ; but he would not ask a princess to become

his wife.

27

4J8 2Jncanoni?et>

" Mary ! " called Eleanor.

Simultaneously with this cry there was a light knock
at the door, which was not heeded. Mary came
swiftly into the room. " Mary, John Norman shall ride
to-day to Glastonbury and bring hither Anthony the
monk, though King or Pope or God himself should
bar his path ! "

The knock at the door was repeated. Mechanically
Mary crossed and opened it. Anthony entered the
room.

CHAPTER XXIII

FOR WOE

THE shadows of darkness crept at last about the
turrets of the old-time castle, on the afternoon
of the thirteenth day of that long-past March.
Gently the night-wind crooned about its now fallen
towers. In half the fortress there was feasting, sing
ing, brawling and laughter ; and none there thought
of all the ages that should come upon the world when
they had gone. At the keep, within the rough prison
rooms of the Count of Poictou, was sorrowful prepara
tion. There was none of his comrades whose heart
was not heavy for him who was leaving his life all
behind him here, and whose years beyond were black.
For these gentlemen, comrades in misfortune for so
long a time, had come to love each other fast and firmly.
Though not a word of the matter was spoken in
the morning, when the King's command came upon
them, and they had seen De la Bordelaye leave the
keep, and knew whither he went, yet when he returned
again, with a face older than it had ever been before,
each man went up to him and held out a silent hand.
Louis' palms were like ice, and the grasp that he gave
their friendly fingers caused them vividly to remember
the moment for some time after. He did not have
to turn away his eyes. When the deathblow to their
happiness comes, men do not weep. But through
the day De la Bordelaye acted in a manner which
they could not understand. All day long he stood
at a loophole that looked off to the west ; and all day

420

he dully prayed for the sun to sink below the horizon
line.

How shall any one describe the spirit that breathed
through the little suite of prison rooms in the west end
of the northern wing of the great castle ? There Mary
and Eleanor spent the long hours alone. Anthony had
departed, and would return only with the night. The
two little French women were dismissed to their rooms.
The Princess could neither explain to them her secret,
for dread of their excitement, nor yet could she endure
their innocent presence. Mary was different. Her
heart was not shrivelled and dry, and prematurely old.
She had seen everything at one glance. Nothing had
been told her in words. While Eleanor sat silent at
the window in her living-room, looking out upon the
desolate earth, her gray eyes lost in space, and her
heart unreadable, Mary was all burning with pain and
unutterable sorrow for the sake of Anthony, the monk.

A mad idea, this marriage ! A troubadour's plan ! A
child's wish ! A headlong action that must fling two
people into life-long unhappiness for the sakepf a single
hour ! True, a prison hour is far longer than an ordi
nary one ; but then is a lifetime under key the only
human conception of eternity. In that little group who
knew the secret, only one there was endowed with fore
sight; and that gift would benefit none concerned, in
any way. How should Anthony forbid the marriage,
he, the monk who had dared to lift his love to her?
The thought of pleading with her to consider her act he
did not for one instant permit himself to hold. Those
two had loved, truly. They had voiced their wish.
His was the power to fulfil it ; for, both of them being
of French birth, .English Interdict had no effect upon
them. In his power he was permitted only to rejoice.

Eleanor Fitz-Geoffrey, although now in her twenty-
fourth year, looked not a day older than she had done
when Anthony first saw her. She was older in mind,

for tzaoe 421

true. Love and the fulness thereof had changed her
childhood into something far more ; but the real woman
hood of her character did not appear till sorrow and
repining had come with it, as her only heritage. All
through this long day her mood was quiescent The
hours were short. To the evening she looked forward
with tremulous eagerness, — for who loves not such ro
mance as this? But she never dared to let her thoughts
go beyond the night. If they strayed to the future, —
her prisoner's eyes would grow piteous, and one delicate
hand would pick at her dress in an abandonment of
dread. Continually she was forcing her mind back,
back to the present, to happiness, to him. Her Sieur
could not come to her that day ; for he dared not run
the risk of an encounter with the royal guards about the
castle. But at dark Anthony was to wait at the little
postern beside the chapel, at the foot of the stairs, and
admit him there. How he should go — was not yet
thought of.

Lingeringly and softly the twilight fell, and then at
last there was something to occupy the immediate
thoughts of Eleanor and her maiden. For a prisoner,
Eleanor's wardrobe was very large; but the garments
in it were old and much worn. In her possession there
was but one dress which had not been drawn from its
coffers since she had, years before, left the shores of
Brittany. This one was a memory of the days at Falaise,
where the widow of Henry of England held her court.
The last time that she had worn it, a child of sixteen,
knights and courtiers had raved over her beauty; and
her grandmother, fearful of her vanity, had forbidden her
to appear in it again. The robe was all of cloth of silver.
From the hem of the skirt up to the knees were wrought
long-stemmed flowers of solid silver, fastened by a worker
in precious metals to the material itself. The waist was
filmy with rare old lace, and there was a collar of bril
liants to go with it. With this royal costume Eleanor

422

would wear no coronet, though, as was lawful, she pos
sessed one, even in her captivity. But she would go
to her husband not as a princess; as a woman only.
Therefore her hair was simply coifed and pinned with
jewelled combs. When Mary's deft fingers had put
the last touches to the toilet, — the wedding toilet, —
Eleanor stood before her steel mirror, in the candle
light, and looked long and earnestly at the reflection.
Then she drew a long sigh. He should find her lovely,
now. But her heart beat to suffocation, and her fore
head grew damp when she perceived Mary approaching
her again with a long, black cloak in her arms.
" It is the hour. Wilt be gone, now, madam? "
Eleanor shivered. " Mary ! — Mary ! I am afraid ! "
For an instant she faltered, .and the tears came into
Mary's eyes. Then with a quick cry the Princess sur
rendered herself, and was held tenderly in the peasant's
arms; for, after all, women are very close sometimes.
And whether her tears were for Anthony's heart-sorrow,
or for the hapless love of this ill-starred lady, the Ma
donna of the Fields at that moment could not have told.
Not a word was spoken by either, and the embrace
lasted only for an instant. Then the Princess once
more struggled to her feet. The time was indeed come.
Fate, unseen, was pointing her on through the madness
of joy toward gray lovelessness that stretched beyond ;
and now thither, on winged feet, went the two whose
lives, joined for an instant in the whirling of eternity,
were after it to be wrenched apart again forevermore.

How Anthony endured through that day he did not
know. Afterwards, had he chosen, he might have
recollected the passing of noontide hours in the lodge
with John Norman, over a bottle of Rhenish, a
manchet, and a plump chicken, listening dreamily,
the while, to the old man's endless chatter. Then
in the afternoon, he went to the stables and saw his
horse groomed and fed. Left alone with the animal,

for auoe 423

a little later, was it possible that Anthony the cold
blooded, Anthony of Glastonbury, who feared no living
authority, let his shorn head fall against Nero's black
mane, and left it there, for an hour, as it seemed to
him? Love, Anthony? Love is the penalty of pre
sumption ; the penalty of life ! No blessing could it
ever bring to thee. Why didst not in youth steel thy
heart, and forbear to look upon its face? 'Tis such
a little thing when a man knows Latin, and approaches
Greek, and can dispute with Abelard and Rosselinus
and John of Salisbury; when he approves of Erigena,
and the Areopagite, and respects all Platonists ! Love
is such a little thing compared to learning ! And yet —
and yet — is not all learning learned for love?

When the March sun had left its zenith, and was
already a long way down the slippery sky, Anthony
returned into the castle. His mind now came to a
standstill before the chapel candles. Like Eleanor and
De la Bordelaye, he would not let it go. With a cloth
from the vestry he set to work upon the silver branches,
and polished them well. He then filled them with gra
dated candles; arranged the altar and its cloth; dusted
the confessional ; placed the kneeling-cushion, with its
tarnished fringes, before the altar; and finally, going
again into the vestry, he brought back with him, into
the waning light, a magnificent stole, cassock, and cap.
The cassock was of lace, rarely old ; the stole and the
cap of red, heavily worked in golden leaves and stars ;
much tarnished, but still yellow enough to reveal their
richness. These things Eleanor had asked the monk to
wear, in memory of the ceremonies she had been wont
to see. He looked well at all the things, and afterward
down at himself, his old robe of rusty black, his rope-
bound waist, his bare, sandalled feet. His face grew
stern, and he shook his head thoughtfully. Then he
carried the garments back again to the vestry and put
them away. He was a monk ; nothing more. A puppet

424

he would not be, even for the sake of Eleanor, his
Princess, whom he was to make the bride of Louis de
la Bordelaye.

It had grown now quite dark in the chapel. Moving
a little unsteadily, he lighted a taper at the lamp that
hung before the shrine of the Madonna, and which
Eleanor kept always burning. With his taper he began
to illumine the candles before the altar. Vividly did it
recall the night, now so long past, when he and Alex
ander had prepared Canterbury Cathedral for the con
secration of Reginald, the Archbishop of a day. That
this marriage was to be as ill-fated as that election had
been, Anthony could not doubt. His lighting of can
dles in this lonely place seemed, in some vague way, to
presage evil to those about him and to himself.

The monk was intent upon his work and his thoughts.
He Jieard not a sound at the chapel door. He did not
feel the presence of the man who had stopped before it,
and was looking in on him, curiously ; and who suddenly,
actuated by some unknown impulse, tiptoed carefully
through this little room and into the vestry, where, from
the convenient darkness, he could see all that was to
happen in the supposedly deserted chapel. The man
was the King. Leaving De Burgh to take his place, he
had, some time before, slipped away from the banquet,
which was growing noisy ; and dreaming of many things,
but least of love, had finally wandered here into the
north wing of the castle. Seeing light issue from a
small doorway afar down the corridor from where he
stood, John had gone toward it to find what inhabitant
dwelt in this portion of his building. Curiosity and
love of novelty being two very strong characteristics of
the royal nature, he was destined for once to gratify
them both. To the excommunicated King, chapels
were strange things ; and he was surprised at the busi
ness of the occupant of this one. Anthony's face he
recognized at once ; but Anthony's position as confessor

for aaioe 425

to his captive niece he had utterly forgotten. How the
monk, therefore, came to be in this place, at this hour,
and engaged in such occupation, were mysteries only
equalled by a second apparition. A woman, slight of
form and very pale of face, closely wrapped in black,
glided swiftly into the little room. The King could
see her panting, and guessed her agitation. She went
straight to Anthony, who turned to her with such a
look in his eyes as angels would not soon forget.
Before him she dropped upon her knees, and his bless
ing, which she could not see, was like a caress. Then,
nervously taking his arm, she led him to the door and
pointed out.

" Go quickly. He may even now be waiting," she
whispered tremulously.

The monk disappeared into the darkness, and the
woman turned about and knelt upon the stones before
the shrine of the Madonna. John had not yet seen her
face distinctly. He knew only that she was not his wife ;
but her identity he half guessed. .Three minutes passed.
She grew impatient. Another three and she had risen
from her knees. One more, longer than any which yet
had been, and she unbound her veil. John started.
He recognized his niece. Then, slowly, she unfastened
her cloak at the neck. There were distant footsteps
coming down the hall. Her heart beat once, with great
violence, and then was calm again. Almost uncon
scious of the action, she flung her wrap away from her,
and then stood quite still, swayed far forward, listening
breathlessly to the increasing sound. In the candle
light her silver robes shimmered about her like mist in
the sunshine. The look in her face was empyreal.
This was the great climax of her lonely life. He was
coming to her, he, the one who had brought life into
her death. He was to be all hers, hers alone, for a few
remaining hours. Then —

The two men reached the chapel door, and Anthony

4.26

had stepped slightly back of his companion. Louis de
la Bordelaye stood on the threshold. There was a low,
long cry from a woman's throat, and those two who
were so nearly one were fast in each other's arms;
while down the forehead of Anthony of Glastonbury
ran two or three great drops of cold, salt sweat.

There was but a single moment of the passionate
embrace ; and De la Bordelaye held Eleanor off at arm's
length, gazing at her with his soul in his eyes. " Thou
art more beautiful than the angels," he whispered to
her; and at the tone Anthony's temper rose. While
her lips answered him the monk stood away, fighting
with himself on the side of destiny.

Meantime the King, in the darkness, gravely regarded
the scene. It was well, perhaps, that he had chanced
upon it, yet he stood in great doubt as to what his
course should be. Isabella had certainly lied to him.
Here was no De la Marche. And Eleanor was so ex
quisite in her happiness that sympathy for her could
not but enter into his heart, even while he realized that
according to all the laws that govern policy he must
not leave these two together though they were in cap
tivity. He had fallen into a revery of other days, those
before his accession to the throne, the girl before him
only a baby in the arms of her mother, Geoffrey's
wife, when he was startled by the sound of the first
words of the marriage ceremony.

The two young people faced the altar, and Anthony,
his face nearly in shadow, confronted them. The pol
ished Latin cadences fell rhythmically from his lips;
but there was in his voice to-night neither expression
nor music. How should he love the syllables that his
dry lips were forming? The attitude of the monk
betrayed no feeling. He stood rigid, his gaze fixed
in space, making no pause in the thing that he was
doing. But in his heart, which was read only by the
great Father, lay such a deathcry as no man has ever

for OHoe m 427

uttered. His whole existence seemed to have gone out
behind him. Dust and ashes were his dreams. And
still his hard, dry voice went on and on, until the end.
The end came mercifully at length. They two, she
and the other, the man whom he hated and loved, were
married. They rose from their knees, and then he
would have turned away. But Eleanor, blushing, smil
ing, shrinking, like any bride of the noon, came forward
to him, her confessor, her friend of old, and held out
both her hands.

" God bless thee, dearest father. Thou hast given
me all my life's happiness to-night."

He did not touch her, but drew back swiftly. " Thank
me not, madam, until a month be gone," was the reply
that flew from his lips.

De la Bordelaye gave him a look of astonishment and
anger. Eleanor's face had once more turned ashen.
A low, faltering groan escaped her, and her hands crept
slowly to her heart. In an instant she might have fallen,
had not her husband, at that moment, lifted her from
the floor in his arms. Her head fell back, inert, upon
his shoulder. So, striding lightly with his slender
burden, he bore her from their wedding.

Like a wounded dog Anthony crept after them to
the door. Blindly, through the darkness, he followed
the progress of mon Sieur's steps, down the passage and
upward, on the stairs, till the echoes reached his ears
no longer. Yet still he stood, wearily, unfeeling, un
thinking, upon the threshold of eternity. After a little
he turned about and stumbled across the chapel. He
did not know that a sound had passed his lips. Care
fully, slowly, he laid himself, face downward, upon the
floor, before Mary's shrine. He pressed his mouth and
his forehead gratefully upon the cold stones, and at last,
scarce conscious of what he did, began to pray; to pray
for Eleanor, his Princess, and for her husband, and her
happiness, a struggling, half-voiced, passionate prayer.

428

Though for the saying of it he was perhaps hardly
responsible, yet, because it was conceived of great
instinctive purity, it did ascend, like all such, to the
heaven of Mary and of God.

After it was ended he still lay there, drowsily now,
though the chapel was very cold. One or two of his
candles had already flared up and gone out into nothing
ness. In the semi-darkness he was roused from his
growing coma by a step which seemed close to his ear.
Looking slowly up, he saw that a man was standing over
him.

" Rise thou, Fitz-Hubert," cried a voice which he
knew to be the King's.

Slowly Anthony stood up, and, nervously exhausted
as he was, prepared for still another scene.

"All that has passed here to-night I have beheld,"
continued John, narrowly examining the other's face for
some sign of fear. Sign was there none. " Know that
thou hast merited my grave displeasure."

" Doubtless, sire," was the laconic answer.

"Then why, Sir Monk, didst do the deed?"

" Because I so wished to do."

The King was slightly nonplussed. He changed
the immediate topic. "This man, — he is one of De
la Marche's suite?"

" Yes, sire."

" And knowest thou that on the morrow he departs
for Corfe? That on the first day of their wedded life
these two people must forever be parted?"

" It still lies in your power, Lord King, to undo the
unhappiness that confronts them. As King, as man, I
ask of you that you countermand the order which will
separate them."

"What sayest thou, man! Wouldst have me sanc
tion the union?"

" Ay."

For a moment John examined him closely. The

JKHoe 429

monk steadily answered the look, giving no sign of
feeling. "Now, look you, Anthony, that you speak
truth to me. De Burgh did surmise, sometime since,
that you, the son of mine old friend Hubert Walter,
though a monk professed, did dare in your own heart
to love my niece. Is this sooth? "

" No ! " cried Anthony. Then, startled by the ring
ing of his voice, he added in a lower tone : " Save as a
priest may reverently love the purity of the woman
whose life and thoughts he has heard in confession for
many years."

"So. Well, it would indeed have been most marvel
lous had you consented to marry away her whom
you loved. But, Master Anthony, despite your words,
these two must be parted. Eleanor, daughter and
sister of the greatest enemies of my crown, must not
carry on a line of hate by marriage with another enemy,
a Poictevin, who owes his vassalage to Hugo de la
Marche. Remember that I had not guessed this plan
of yours ; and remember also that it was carried out in
the full knowledge of the parting that shall come. To
morrow, even as I have commanded, he shall go."

So spake the King, not angrily, but in the tone which
his councillors and his friends had long since learned to
know as final. But Anthony, not used to John's way,
was not aware of this. In his own heart he believed
that another plea for her might perhaps have softened
the royal heart. The plea he did not make, but
remained in acquiescent silence while John, taking a
lighted candle from the altar to guide him on his way
back to his own rooms, departed out of his presence
without another word.

So that night of March thirteenth passed slowly
through the portals of time, back to the eternity whence
it came. By midnight, castle, keep, and lodge were all
asleep. The night-wind swirled about the towers. In
the chilly vestry off the marriage chapel lay one whose

43° (Uncanom'?eti

eyes closed not, but who tossed in a double agony of
mind and flesh backward and forth in his maddening
garment of penitence, upon the straw pallet, covered
from the frosty night by a vestment of red and of
gold.

The morning dawned ; the morning when Bristol's
prisoners were to end an old and begin a new captivity.
How had the sun courage to shine upon such a day?
It did shine, with cruel brilliancy, all the long hours
through, until it departed from the English race and
left therein two hearts to that kindly shelter of tears, —
the night. Eleanor's windows looked toward the west
and south upon the courtyard. Therefore no sudden
gleam startled the pretty twilight of early morning,
when first the sun peered over the horizon's edge. But
the shadow of dawn found De la Bordelaye with still
open eyes. His burden had been too heavy for rest.
Rising quietly, he hastened to prepare himself for the
day, turning, when he could bear to do so, to gaze
upon the delicate, faintly smiling face of his wife, who had
fallen, with the coming of morning, into a light sleep.
Her dreams were happy ones ; and, wishing to leave
her to them while they stayed, he took care to move so
softly that he should not waken her. It was not yet
five by the dial when, fully accoutred, he wrapped him
self once more in the sombre cloak with which he had
left the keep. Stealthily he moved toward the bed
side, thinking to look upon her there for the last time,
and so spare her a fresh agony of parting. She was very
near to waking, though he did not know it. Her cheeks
were flushed a little, and she moved uneasily in slumber.
One long coil of her silken black hair had fallen over
the edge of the bed, and dragged upon the floor below.
La Bordelaye caught this up in his hands and pressed
it again and again to his lips, striving fiercely to keep
back the moan that had risen from his breast. He rose

iffor moe 431

at last from his knees, the tears raining' down his face,
the breath struggling with difficulty through his strained
throat. Perhaps until this pitiful moment Louis had
never known the full extent of his great love for Eleanor.
Her presence concentrated his life. Without her he
could not dream of existence. All this swept over him
as he hurried to the door of that little room. If he
could, he must spare her the last pain of the actual
farewell, even though he longed more than he could
have told for one word, one look from her, his wife,
his love, his princess. His hand was upon the tap
estry curtain. There was a wild cry behind him. In
an instant of weakness he turned. She was in his
arms.

That cry was their only utterance. In their vale of
sorrow there was not a sound. They were blind, deaf,
dumb, incapable of but one thought, — that this moment
was their last together ; that presently one spirit should
be torn in two. Time being as nothing, then, they
might have stood for an hour thus, fiercely clasped.
De la Bordelaye was roused by a slight sound. Mary
had entered through a little door in the opposite wall
and stood transfixed, gazing upon them, tearless, but with
her hands clasped tightly before her. Recovering mem
ory and reason with the sight of her, the man made
a slight sign with his head. She understood, came
forward and took Eleanor, now scarcely conscious,
from him who still clung to her. The Princess made
no resistance. She had fallen back upon Mary. Her
arms dropped to her sides. She gave a choking cough,
and Louis saw blood upon her lips, that had come, deep
and brilliant, from her lungs. The man whispered two
words, hoarsely, to Mary. They expressed the single
straw of thought that now remained to him in the
torrent of his feeling.

" Comfort her."

Then he was gone.

Corfe Castle*was a long distance from Bristol, lying
far to the north, somewhere near the border of Wales.
The messenger of the King having now been allowed
a full day's start for preparation, the little group of
Poictevin prisoners was ordered to leave the keep at six
in the morning. Thus De la Bordelaye, whose romance
was known to all the members of the old, friendly
guard, had barely time enough to regain his place
before the summons came from the new men. The
call was prompt, for the sun had just begun to touch
the dial mark; and at once the five prisoners, led by
the captain of their road-guard, issued for the last time
from that old and dearly loved prison. They were to
be very strictly watched upon the journey, and, even
now, their hands had been tied a foot apart, with stout
rope. Then for formality's sake they were searched. A
little packet, taken from the breast of De la Bordelaye's
doublet, was glanced through and returned to him with
a sympathetic smile. Louis feared no rallying on the
part of his friends. Knowing that the matter was truly
serious, they were too considerate of him to speak.

When finally they stepped from the guardroom into
the courtyard, the scene was enlivening. The March
air was frosty, despite the sun. A high wind swirled
down from the northwest, blowing out the pennants
on the lances of the horsemen who were riding their
chargers up and down the stonepaved court. The sun
light glanced from their polished armor and trappings,
and shone full into the pallid faces of the prisoners as
they were lifted to the saddles and had their feet tied
together beneath the bodies of their steeds.

The Princess Eleanor, with Mary, totally unheeded,
behind her, stood at her window looking down at it all.
She was quite tearless, and no sign of emotion escaped
her, except that presently her left hand crept up to her
throat and grasped it as if to ease the tightening strain.
She was still in her long, loose, white gown, over which

for asaoe 433

Mary had thrown a mantle. Her feet were bare, among
the rushes of the floor ; and her hair, dishevelled, fell
back from the thin, white face, in which her great eyes
looked forth pitifully upon the sight below. So she
was to behold, for the last time in life, the form of her
husband. She thought that she saw his hands tremble
as he took the reins of his horse from a soldier beside
him. She watched him under the ignominy of being
bound to his saddle. She perceived that his dark hair
was stirred by the breeze. She noted the waving of the
draggled plume in his cap. The line was being formed
for the departure. A little group of the soldiers of
their old guard came crowding about to say farewell to
the men whom they had come to know so well. It was
in love and sorrow that turnkey and prisoner clasped
hands and said good-bye. One thing only Eleanor
could not note. That was another face that looked
down from a window in the opposite wing of the castle
upon this very scene. This, too, was a woman's face,
framed, like the other, in black hair. But, oh ! the
difference of the two ! It was Isabella, a wretched
woman, an unhappy Queen, who, in doing Eleanor
great wrong, had likewise wronged herself. Her eyes
were fixed in passionate intensity upon the unconscious
figure of Hugo de la Marche, who sat his horse at the
head of the line with the dignity of an old-time warrior.
No sign for her, for his former ward, for the lady of
England, had the Count to-day.

A bugle sounded. The little group of horses straight
ened out and began to move. He was going — Louis
de la Bordelaye, the husband of the most hapless and
the most beautiful Princess in all Europe, the Pearl of
Brittany! He was going — he was going forever. A
scream of agony was in Eleanor's heart, but it never
reached her lips. He had turned in his saddle. His
eyes were lifted to her at the window. He could make
no move; but a smile, heart-broken, infinitely tender,

434

lighted his face, and flew to her. She answered it
bravely, with a long love-look. The drawbridge fell.
There was a sharp turn in the road beyond it. The
last horseman passed away. They were gone. Eleanor
turned slowly from the window, her face transfigured
with the holiness of sorrow. She sank gently to her
knees; and then, as she swayed, unconscious, Mary
caught her in her arms.

CHAPTER XXIV

GUESTS AT GLASTONBURY

ANEW season had come round again. It was that
month of months, the fifth in the year, when the
great thorn -tree was wont to find itself in a new
coat of white and delicate green ; when the reservoir at
the abbey was replenished with young trout, and com
pline was said in twilight. Anthony, also, was beginning
to make new visits to Saint Michael's Torr, no longer out
of lonely unhappiness, but to watch the advance of the
season. And when Philip sometimes ascended thither,
during recreation, to bear him company, it was he who
must speak cheerfully, and point out contentment to the
melancholy scribe.

To tell the truth, Philip, filius Benedicti, was far too
unworldly a person to have borne with any equanimity
his single glimpse of the outer life. Beside his own
heart-wound, which was so deep that he could not
bear to let his thoughts rest upon it, Philip had been
incredibly distressed by the other incidents of his
journey. The idea that some lives, even of the very
loneliest in the secular world, were so well filled with
change of scene and happening, that such an incident
as the arrival of a petty monk caused no interest to
them, had struck his innate sense of loneliness more
cruelly than he could acknowledge to any but Anthony.
And he did not tell Anthony his heavy concern at
the fact that the Princess had learned the news of her
confessor's illness with neither tears in her eyes nor
particular anxiety in her manner. Anthony had drawn

436 2Jncanoni?eti

enough of a tale of woe from his comrade to enable him
to surmise other things ; and poor Philip was again
taken aback at the way in which his friend regarded the
whole matter.

" So, Philip," he had remarked, without a trace of
feeling, " thou didst think that women were things as
foolish as we, eh? Well, look you, brother, 'tis not so.
There be three orders of natures i' the world : the first,
hardy and stout of temper — man, the soldier ; the
second, strong of spirit weak of heart, with some
thing of pride — woman; the third, over-sensitive in
thought, maudlin of sentiment, a fool in love, what men
spurn, and women laugh at — the monk. So harden
thy emotion and regard man, Philip, and try and ape
him a little, though it be never so hard."

While Anthony platitudinized, and Glastonbury drank,
the great secular heart of the island was throbbing with
excitement over the political outlook. Nearly a third
of its male population lay encamped about Dover, upon
Barnham downs ; while a great part of the other two
thirds, by various routes, and with varied rapidity, were
wending their way thither as fast as horses or their own
feet could carry them. Mighty were to be the happen
ings at the old seaport now. The Pope had got his
big bone back, and England and France alike lay look
ing on helplessly, trying to fathom the extent of his
jaws.

Glastonbury heard small tidings of secular deeds, for
such history, nowadays, came not often in its way. But
on the evening of May fourth, there arrived a courier,
who had travelled in haste from Bridgewater, with
the word that certain highly distinguished guests would
arrive next evening and stop overnight at the monastery,
provided there were room, convenience, and welcome
to be had. There was abundance of room ; and as for
convenience and welcome, the whole abbey rejoiced
and rendered thanks for the honor conferred upon it.

at tiffiagtotUwp? 437

In consequence, with the sunset of the succeeding day
came the five lords and a noble company of their
retainers and henchmen. First was the sheriff of
Somerset, William Briwere, gentleman of the King's
chamber, from his new castle at Bridgewater, bringing
with him his friend Randulph Blandeville, a lusty baron,
manager of the King's hunting seat at Cranbourne Chase.
And ever a fierce partisan of the King was he. Three
minutes' distance behind these two rode William Gifford,
Lord of Taunton, half-brother of Peter de Rupibus,
who had travelled from his castle alone to Dunster,
where he was joined by Hubert de Burgh and the
young Baron of Dunster, Reginald de Mohun, a dark-
eyed, slender youth of fifteen, who was being taken
to his first council and thereafter hoped to win his
spurs. These constituted Glastonbury's guests; a dis
tinguished company, of the very flower of England's
peerage ; and by them all, even the youth whom he
saw for the first time, Anthony Fitz-Hubert was greeted
as a friend and an equal.

The five, together with their trains, attended the
second vespers, held with high ceremony in the great
church, during the hour commonly devoted to read
ing. Confession had been said in the recreation hour;
so from now to midnight, at least, the monks were
free to keep revelry and feasting for the entertain
ment of the guests. As a matter of course, the noble
men occupied the first table, in company with Harold,
Comyn, Cusyngton, and Michael Canaen. De Burgh,
when he saw that all the stools were thus occupied,
glanced at Anthony, who faced him at the second table,
with open regret in his face; and Anthony answered
with a smile, for, at the look, his heart had warmed.
There was no reader at the desk that night. The
guests themselves were to be " entertainers ". A few
eager questions from Harold and the deacons brought
out facts and comments that were of high interest

438

to these isolated monks, who, at heart, were very good
Englishmen.

" Pray you tell us," requested Comyn of Blandeville,
" the import of your journey to Dover. In the abbey
here we have no news of royal matters."

" The royal affairs are like enow to concern ye
churchmen heavily, at last," returned the baron, in a
voice like a trumpet.

" Ay. The Interdict is to be removed ere long,"
added Briwere, sententiously, while he eyed young
Reginald, who looked sleepy and bored.

" Is that sooth ! " cried Harold, with an interest that
roused the boy's scorn. " Tell us the twist of it, my
lords, we pray."

11 T is a coil," admitted Blandeville. " I was at Dover
on the twenty-fourth, and, meseemeth, know as much as
any man save Pandulph l himself of the way they finally
outwitted John. I left the coast on April thirtieth, and
have, since then, been half over England to gather
more men for the King. Now the National Council —

" Nay, man, nay. The outwitting of the King ! Tell
it. All of us needs must know whatever is possible of
the matter ; while thine own affairs are of lesser import
to the world," put in De Briwere, with a softening smile.

Blandeville was by no means disturbed at this banter ;
but, changing the period of his discourse, began a story
that most of the world still knows little enough about.2
He was as much interested in the 'telling of the tale as
were the rest in listening ; for, though not all of them
were such kingsmen as he, still the persecution which
had been so heaped on John, and which seemed now at
its culminating point, enlisted a certain amount of uni
versal sympathy. Randulph was very earnest and very
loud-voiced. At intervals he emphasized his statements
by thumping heavily upon the table with his fist, until,

1 Pandulph was Innocent's legate to England throughout John's reign.

2 The essential points in the following narrative are historical.

at dffiagtonlmr? 439

before he had fairly got into his tale, he had all the
roomful forgetting to eat and craning their necks
toward him, that they might lose not a single word of
the adventure which would have done credit to the
invention of a troubadour.

" Doubtless ye all do know how, from February till
now, two armies, ours and the French, have been ogling
each other across the Channel, their fleets lying just
below them, waiting the Pope's word to rush together.
At a certain meeting in Paris, last January, Innocent
promised England to Philip, an he could get it.
France was doubtless rilled with delight; for he made
ready for the conquest speedily enow, and came to the
coast with a great body of troops. There was a certain
little man who brought the tale of all this to the King
and to us, his servants. Men call him J — "

A heavily booted foot came cracking down on Blande-
ville's at this point. Randulph bit his lip in pain, and
De Burgh's face grew red with the effort. Anthony,
who was looking on from his table, was, however, the
only monk who noted the incident, for the story
teller slid gracefully over the break and brilliantly
continued :

" Men call him John Lackland, and indeed methinks
the nickname hurt; for, assuredly, he hath not de
served the gibe since first 'twas heard. The little spy
who brought the word was rewarded richly, and then we
set about raising men enough to confront those of the
Pope's puppet. Twas not hard. A hundred thousand
lay encamped on Barnham downs within the month.
All the barons, too, friendly or unfriendly to the King,
loyal to a man to England, were there.

"Now I have not guessed whether 'twas that our
brave array frightened the Pope, or whether Innocent
still wanted both sides of us, France and the others, for
his slaves. All that is told as true is, that on the thir
teenth of April a Roman ship put off from the Tiber's

440

mouth and set sail west and north, till in ten days, by
most fair winds, it reached the English coast where
stands Dover Castle. Pandulph was master of the
vessel, and on the twenty-third, under cover of a most
blithesome rainstorm, Innocent's legate crept ashore
and appeared in the tent of Roger, Earl Bigod, who
thou knowest is fonder of Isabella's kisses than ever he
was of John. By a chance most strange, a round dozen
of us, who held command over most of the army, were,
despite the weather, assembled at meat Now I do be
think me that the Earl most specially invited me to sup
with him on some rare sea-fish — sole it was — caught
that day, and right good eating too, taken for the pur
pose out o' the Channel by his captain-at-arms. A
round dozen of us there were, and all but Pembroke
and me notedly ill-favored toward the King. We two
they were never sure of; but, sith we held nigh to forty
thousand men between us, they were forced to risk the
chance of winning us to their plot.

" I shall not soon forget mine astonishment when
Pandulph came among us. I had fancied him leagues
away in Rome, still pandering to his holy master.
Only Pembroke and I were uninformed as to his pres^
ence in England ; for the others but glanced at Bigod,
smiling stealthily, as they gat them up to greet the
man. Oh ! I did note full many a thing that night !
Pandulph is in noway ill-looking; and "'twere useless
to deny that he speaks our tongue with a pretty twist.
Withal, his manners are convincing and his smile is
rarely sweet."

Here Randulph paused a little for breath and stole a
side-glance at De Burgh, who was scowling abstractedly
into his trencher. A smile passed between GifTord and
Briwere ; for it was an open secret that Hubert and the
Pope's legate hated each other like bear and cat ; and
that any praise, even as meagre as this, of John's
enemy, was enough to set the courtier into a rage.

at (0laj3tonburi? 441

So adroit was the pause, however, that Hubert did not
understand it.

"The King's Earl and I received Pandulph with
more joy and eagerness than all the others put together;
thereby highly astounding the Archbishop's partisans,
and amusing ourselves not a little. Thinking his way
quite clear before him, then, Innocent's man put his pro
posals straight unto us, without pause to feel a way
— how Innocent, repenting his bargain with Philip, and
fearing for the safety of his well-loved England, would
once more take her part and drive France back again
from her doors, if only John would repent his long
stubbornness in the matter of Stephen.

" ' And think you that he would so dishonor himself
and all of us?' quoth Pembroke at this point; and
most heartily did I approve his words.

" ' And what say my lords here? Is the King still
to keep on 'gainst us and your rights?' inquired Pan
dulph, quickly, frightened a little by his mistake and
looking around at the rest.

" Then up rose the other ten of them : Saher of Win
chester, and Robert of Clare, and Henry of Herford,
and John Constable of Chester, and William de Mow-
bray, and Robert de Vere, and Eustace de Vesci, and
William Mallet, and Geoffrey Mandeville, and Bigod our
host, and swore by all the Saints that this time the
King should be brought to the terms of the Pope.
Then Pembroke and I were threatened with murder at
once, did we not agree to their decisions. Had the fu
ture safety of John been assured by our death, ye will
guess, good friends, that our lives would cheerfully have
been forfeited. But when we heard their plot, how all
the soldiers under those ten earls and barons (full
sixty thousand, horse and foot, did they command
amongst them) were to desert the royal standard on the
morrow in obedience to the bidding of their lords,
then truly we saw that our death would but lose the

442 2Jncanoni?eD

King two faithful subjects. Therefore, sith we would
not at any price consent to the ordering of our own men
to so dastardly a deed, we were made to take an oath
of secrecy for a sennight, till their matter should be
arranged, and John have capitulated. So we were
bound in the tent, hand and foot, and lay there without
hope of escape, listening to the damnable treachery of
those men, — it were a shame to call them nobles.
The result of their conference all England knows. In
the morning more than half the army refused to answer
the summons for the King's review. What, think you,
could John do? I dared not see him after the adven
ture, for fear I should break mine oath and honor and
tell what I knew. Pembroke and I departed together
from the camp, and journeyed thence to London.
Both of us, I ween, are in some danger of life, since, the
sennight and our oath being passed together, those ten
men assuredly must know that their foul treason will be
published abroad throughout England. And hence
forth, in very sooth, shall I spare no opportunity of tell
ing the tale, deeming it but rightful that the true cause
of John's surrender should be known."

"And the King hath surrendered, then?" asked
Comyn, breathlessly.

" Ay, more 's the pity. Our present journey is to a
national council of barons to be held at Dover, where,
't is said, the King will at last give amicable audience to
Stephen Langton."

" Base villains ! " muttered Gifford, who had been
much moved by the tale; and young Reginald, wide
enough awake by now, echoed his words in loyal
anger.

" Then indeed the Interdict will shortly be removed,"
remarked Canaen.

De Burgh glanced up at him. " Yes," he answered.
14 And 't is time."

There was a little murmur of assent to this, which

d5uej8tjs at dBiaistonburr 443

stopped when Cusyngton said suddenly: "And so
Jocelyn will return in peace to Bath."

Here De Burgh glanced over at Anthony, this time
with a concealed smile in his eyes. Anthony answered
the look with appreciation; while Comyn, jealous of
Anthony's favor, also caught the passage of eyes and
made mental note of it.

" Lastly, Randulph, tell us if there was any talk of
bribes between the ten barons and the legate," said De
Briwere, after the pause.

"No talk was there of such," returned Blandeville,
honestly. " The word ' money ' was never spoken among
them; but such a reading and signing of parchments
bearing Innocent's seal was there that we could not but
guess, Pembroke and I, that there was something of
that sort thought on."

" Ay. They would have been too wary to have
trusted tales of moneys to your ears," put in De Burgh,
helping himself bountifully to pasty, and then adding,
as if he would close the conversation : " Come, friends
all, a bumper to the King, and confusion, in the end, to
all his enemies ! "

The nobles, regarding Hubert a little curiously, raised
their horns high, but none was surprised when Harold,
egged on to the occasion by his scowling deacons, said
hastily: "Nay, gentlemen. It were better that ye
drank no ill-will to the Pope of Christendom. In any
case we are forbidden so to do."

The long meal was finally ended. Many a monk left
the refectory upon unsteady feet; but none remained
behind to slumber on the rushes underneath the table.
As for the noble guests, they were, to all appearances,
unconscious of the fact that each was carrying away
with him something like half a gallon of mingled wines,
ale, mead, and stronger liquor. To-night the recessional
order was not observed; but each left the room with
the group best suited to his mind. The henchmen and

444 encanoni?et>

servitors of the noblemen had been scattered among
the ordinary brethren at the meal; and returned the
hospitality shown them by regaling their hosts with his
tories of doubtful propriety concerning various secular
matters, which made up in vividness of detail whatever
they might lack in truth. All having finally adjourned
to the great hall, none, either monk or noble, seemed
particularly desirous of retiring for the night. The
young Lord of Mohun was the only one who betrayed
signs of weariness ; but he was upon the very verge of
sleep as he sat upon a stool beside De Briwere. De
Burgh, noting his state, presently gave him permission
to retire, adding, after a slight hesitation, a word to
Anthony who stood near by.

" Wilt show him to his chamber, Fitz-Hubert, and —
perchance — wait there till he sleeps? "

Anthony at once acquiesced, perceiving that De
Burgh had some object in view. The monks around,
pleased at the thought that Anthony was being pressed
into a menial service, failed to note any significance in
the fact that, twenty minutes after the boy had departed,
the King's favorite rose unostentatiously, and followed
him.

My lord found Anthony in his own apartment, which
adjoined that of the already sleeping youth. The monk
rose expectantly as Hubert entered ; and the nobleman
smiled at him, seeing that his desire had been under
stood.

" Sit you down again, Anthony. Though the hour is
late I would hold some converse with you."

"You have something to tell me," said the monk,
uneasily, as he stood with his back to the bedstead.

" What makes you think so? "

" I know not. T is somehow a foreboding that
promises little happiness for me."

As these words were spoken Hubert, who was in the
act of sitting down, straightened up again, and looked

at dPlajstonlnir? 445

sharply at his companion. There was a long and
thoughtful silence. When De Burgh spoke, it was with
a note of helpless sympathy in his voice. " My news,
brother, concerns the Princess Eleanor."

The monk sat suddenly down, his eyes kindling.
"What of her?"

" Hast seen her of late? "

" Three weeks agone."

" When you were there — thought you she appeared
well?"

" Nay." There was now a pitiful question in An
thony's voice.

" A week since, passing through the city, I did visit her.
Her appearance shocked me, in very truth. Among
many things she asked after her brother."

"You told her — ?"

" That he was well and in France, — may God forgive
me! "

" Rather, God bless thee ! " was the quick re
joinder.

" She gave me a plea to carry to the King. Wouldst
hear it?"

" Yes."

" She bade me ask her uncle that he would give her
the freedom of some cloister. She wishes to become a
nun."

Anthony started up. The blood within him all rushed
suddenly to his heart, seeming to drain his body dry.
He sank down again upon the stool, then once more,
blindly, rose up to his feet. De Burgh watched him
with compassion. For all the monk's vehement denial
to the King, De Burgh had long since guessed the truth
of his hidden feeling for Eleanor. Yet when, at last,
Anthony's voice became audible, it was startlingly well
controlled. The courtier's words had sunk in his spirit
to a place too deep for further outward demonstration.
His brain was quite clear.

446 (HncanontfcD

" Think you that John will grant her wish? "

" Look you, Anthony, an you would have it so, I
could, methinks, get the King's refusal to it. But be
not hasty in your decision. Think of the happiness of
Eleanor. She would be made, doubtless, abbess of
some small nunnery. That would not be as if she did
become a common nun. And so might she be kept
forever in ignorance of Arthur's death."

" But — but there is somewhat more, Hubert." An
thony stopped, hesitated, and looked down at the floor.
He was sitting awkwardly upon his stool, his body all
drawn up, till he seemed like some tall skeleton, over
which a long gown had carelessly been thrown.

" The ' somewhat more,' " proceeded De Burgh,
"meaneth, doubtless, De la Bordelaye. For the last,
then, news cometh from Corfe that he cannot live."

Anthony closed his eyes. During two minutes not a
sound stirred the silence that reigned over the two. Yet
the way was clear now before the monk. There was
no longer a question. He was waiting only to gather
sufficient breath to frame his answer ; for it seemed to
him that he should suffocate.

"Carry thy plea to the King, Hubert; and — and
make thy words as eloquent as may be. I — wish
it."

" God be with thee, Anthony ! Ah, friend ! how truly
hard hath life gone with thee ! " De Burgh, his seri
ous face alight with sympathy, leaned over and grasped
one of the passive hands.

" Pity me not, Hubert. I need no pity. My life hath
been well enough," came the expressionless tones.
With an effort he added: "And how long — how
long, Hubert, thinkest thou 'twill be ere — she be
gone?"

" That no man may tell. He who would prophesy
must read the King's mind. It may be weeks; it may
be days."

at (KlajStontiurt 447

" I would bid her farewell when — 't is time."

" That shalt thou do. I will find a way to let thee
know."

Anthony made a little response with his head. Then
he rose up and held out his right hand to the courtier.
De Burgh grasped it. With no further word the monk
turned about and left the chamber. His light steps made
not a sound in the corridor. The great room of the
abbey was dark, for De Burgh's departure had broken
the assembly. Silence, black-winged, brooded there.
The guests and the dwellers in Glastonbury had sought
their rest. Anthony mounted to the dormitory, and
passed down between the long lines of doors to his dis
tant cell. Peter Turner, next to him, was snoring lustily.
Throwing off his hot garmen